


Moments

by AlphaFlyer



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A little bit of everything, AU, Angst, Canon-Compliant, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, a total hodgepodge really, and canon non-compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 23,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1492090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/pseuds/AlphaFlyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of unconnected short fics and ficlets, written for friends or from prompts, to while away endless flights, or to avoid doing soul-sucking things like taxes.  Includes everything from mini-drama and humour, to Agents of SHIELD crossovers and A/Us. Ratings vary (mostly T, one M).</p><p>Latest chapter: "The Colour Purple".  Classic Clintasha fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Celebration

**Author's Note:**

> One of the best parts about being in fandom is the people you meet – the ones who reassure you that you’re not as much of a head case as you’re afraid you may be, given how much time you spend obsessing about fictional characters. 
> 
> Some you get to know and become close to in real life, others you may never meet face-to-face. But the friendships you build are real, and they matter. So someone has a birthday; another leaves a prompt; a third just needs cheering up – and stories happen as a result. Little stories, meant to show that just for a moment, you connected through something you both love to do. 
> 
> This is a collection of ficlets a bit too insubstantial to ”make it” on their own; a jumble of things, including an A/U and a couple of Agents-of-SHIELD(ish) pieces. All are rated T, except #7 (so far).
> 
> _____
> 
> The first ficlet was written for Shenshen77 on the occasion of her birthday, and as a toast to fresh starts.

 

“What’s this?” 

Natasha eyes the package suspiciously.  It looks as if someone had taken an old shoebox, sat on it, and then wrapped most of a roll of toilet paper around it to keep the sides from splitting open. 

“It’s a present,” Barton says.  “Well, not exactly. But I wrapped it myself.” 

“I would never have guessed,” she says.  “What _is_ it?” 

She is still fathoming the man’s capacity for obstinacy, but this answer is something she should have expected: “Why don’t you open it and find out?” 

Natasha holds the thing up against her ear and shakes it a little.  It doesn’t tick, or rattle; no, it sounds … _fluffy_ , like there’s something soft inside, barely moving. 

“Don’t tell me you actually bought that black velvet wall hanging you saw in the market in Lisbon?” she demands.  Their first mission together had almost ended in tragedy, when she had found that his tastes ran to cheap bars and tacky souvenirs. 

“Please,” Barton is offended.  “Give me some credit.  Those can only be truly awesome when they involve Elvis in his fat period.” 

She gives him a measuring look and weighs the parcel carefully in her hand.  It’s actually pretty light, and once you subtract the packaging, there isn’t much left for anything except … 

“Anthrax powder?” she asks, frowning. 

“You spend entirely too much time thinking about death, Romanoff,” Barton informs her.  Before she can even interject a _Yes, so? That’s my job,_  he continues, “… and not enough time considering the other side of the coin.  Birth.  Or _re_ birth, for that matter.  Beginnings. Turning over a new leaf, that sort of thing.” 

“Birth?”  

Natasha ignores the last bits; Barton getting metaphorical is not an appealing concept, especially after what he just said about Elvis Presley and black velvet.  She dials her glare up to _Medusa_ , without noticeable impact. Instead, he rolls his eyes and huffs impatiently. 

“As in birth _day_.” 

Natasha suddenly feels as if someone was sitting on her chest. There had been records within the Red Room, of course, but any data in them was only as reliable as the motives of those who had entered them.  In an agency that specialized in inventing identities, planting memories and concealing tracks, _reliable_ was a death sentence. 

“It’s not my birthday,” she says, extending the hand with the parcel in his direction as if to hand it back to him. 

Barton won’t take no for an answer. 

“It is now,” he says, and there’s a slight edge to his voice.  “Open the damn thing.  I’ll stay close, so if it’s booby-trapped we go down together.” 

“Fine.” 

She rips into the parcel easily, given the improvised nature of its wrapping.  Lifting the slightly dented lid, she finds … 

“More toilet paper?  Taken off the roll, too, and all balled up, ready for use?  Oh, Hawkeye, you shouldn’t have.” 

“Hey!” Barton takes a step towards her.  “Careful. You don’t want to tear it.  Some day, this will have sentimental value to you.  Like Scrooge McDuck’s first self-earned dime.” 

Natasha snorts, even as she is beginning to suspect that maybe  there is actually something vaguely important in the box.  She fishes gingerly around in the wads of tissue ( _three-ply -- he went all out, or else he snagged a roll from Fury’s private bathroom_ ), only to find more paper at the bottom.She takes it out and unfolds it, trying to ignore Barton whose expression has suddenly gone unreadable. 

It's an envelope, addressed to her, with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo on the back.  She rips it open and takes out the single half-sheet.  The paper is covered in numbers and incomprehensible acronyms, with her name at the top.  

And yes, it bears today’s date. 

“What is this?” she says, and doesn’t bother to hide her confusion.  “It looks like a ledger of some sort.” 

“It is,” Clint says, and the oddest smile crosses his face.  “Of sorts.  But it isn’t _red_.  It’s your first official pay slip.  Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., _Agent Romanoff._ ”


	2. Chai Latte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was written in February for **Anuna** , on her birthday. After Cap2 and Episodes 17 and 18, alas, it took on a whole different meaning – as in, _awww, Skye …_

Sometimes, Skye really doesn’t know what to make of Ward -- it’s like he’s half a dozen different people, taking off one skin and putting on another, just like _that_. Maybe it’s that whole being a covert agent thing?  

Sometimes, it would be nice for the real Grant Ward to stand up. 

She wraps her hands around her chai latte and frowns, trying to puzzle him out as he grins at her from across the table.  He salutes her with his Bold Americano, probably wondering what idiotic scheme she’s hatching now to get them all killed.  

So here’s the deal. 

One moment he’s like a Father Confessor, patiently letting her rant about why compartmentalization totally sucks as the theological basis for an organizational flow chart. Seriously, why _shouldn’t_ Coulson be able to tell her stuff he knows but she doesn’t and wants to, just because she supposedly doesn’t _need_ to know it?  

Who says what she might need to know tomorrow, when it’ll be too late?  What kind of working environment does _that_ make for _?_ Lack of trust much? How can you have cross-fertilization of ideas and lateral thinking in a world made up of steel silos of excellence and impenetrable levels of classification? 

So when that happens, Father Confessor Ward listens and nods politely, doesn’t agree or argue at all until she shuts up -- at which point he either grants absolution or makes her feel guilty about her whinge binge, all with a few choice words that aren’t even all that different from one time to the next.  Annoying, mostly, but she also usually feels a bit better for having dumped.  Funny, that. 

Other times, he’s totally hot, like when he’s teaching her in the sparring room where to kick a guy and how hard, to disable him but still leave some breath in for interrogation purposes.  Holding her by the waist with those big hands of his, helping her shift her balance and breathing down her neck, and the way that t-shirt clings to his abs? Holy shit.  

And she finds herself wondering, are there actual pheromones flying, or does her nose just have a particularly fine imagination?  (And dammit, there should be a law against parading an ass like that around in public.) 

But then he turns on the annoying big brother routine, not that she knows what that feels like, never having had one, but she’s read about them in books. Surely, throwing a sweaty towel at a girl’s face isn’t something anyone _but_ an annoying big brother would do, right? 

Then again sometimes she sees him wander over to May, and whatever those two have between them it’s different, and not something Skye can totally relate to or be a part of -- something old, worn and a bit frayed around the edges. Like they’re comparing battle scars and old stories around a campfire and getting comfort from a silent nod, and Skye just knows that she doesn’t have enough scars and stories yet to be in that particular club, even though the door isn’t closed. 

Romanoff and Barton, they were like that too, that time they stopped by on the plane after the Manila op, to use the medical bay and hang with Coulson and May and Ward for a bit. They sat up way late, the five of them, passing some bottles around, and sometimes there was a gale of laughter coming from the lounge and sometimes there were long silences before the voices would be back. 

Theirs is a trust and comfort shaped by sharing horrendous losses, incandescent victories and everything in between -- distilled into some kind of air that allows them to breathe easier in each other’s company than in anyone else’s.  It’s a wordless ease of being with one another that’s been earned the hard way, and Skye isn’t there yet; she knows it and she really doesn’t mind.  It will come, that ease, and that’s something to be hoped and feared in equal measure. 

So, yeah. Different Wards, for different occasions. 

But then he turns up from his recce – the one that Coulson said she couldn’t go on because there aren’t that many young women with curly light hair in Muscat, and _we don’t want to be too memorable, not yet anyway._ He turns up with a Tazo chai latte for her, still warm -- not hot, but that’s what microwaves are for, or that heat-ray thingy FitzSimmons are experimenting with in the back -- and who knew there was a Starbucks in Oman?  But he has a nose for them, does Ward, and he always remembers what she likes, even when she’s not there to remind him. 

“You done staring into that cup yet?” he asks, finally. 

And yes – yes, she is. 

Because it’s just hit her: What she’s been doing is like trying to sort out all the different spices that go into a decent chai, when it’s always really the blend that matters. 

And there’s one thing that all those different Wards are when you throw them all together, and for a moment it almost makes her all dizzy and blubbery, because it’s not something she ever had before – not really, anyway.  She grabs her cardboard cup and takes a quick swallow, to stop herself from having a serious snot moment. 

Grant Ward is a friend.


	3. The Joys of Flying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is it about Darcy and aliens, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was the result of a LiveJournal/tumblr meme, in which **Ericadawn16** picked the prompt "stuck-in-an-airport-because-the-flights-were-SO-VERY-delayed-and-it’s-like-two-am AU", with characters Elliot Randolph and Darcy Lewis. (Huh? Challenge much??). I wrote it in the course of a twenty-two-plus-hour flight to Japan, which involved one missed connection and an unplanned change of airport. Go figure.
> 
> I have taken liberties with the flight times between Tromsø and Oslo, and when Darcy would have to be leaving town to make a credible connection to LaGuardia. But if you believe in Asgard and flying demi-gods, I suppose I can get away with that, right? 
> 
> Oh, and lest you think there’s any attitudinal meta hidden in my pseud, that’s got something to do with my other fandom, Star Trek Voyager, not my far-too-frequent travelling habits.

 

“Tromsø sucks.” 

The man sitting across from Darcy looks up briefly, but instead of making some sort of sympathetic noise, he turns his attention back to his notebook.  It’s not even a real notebook, but one of those spiral-bound manual things, and his eyebrows are pulled over his eyes like a curtain, presumably so he can pretend he doesn’t see Darcy, and her attempts to find a conversation. 

She lets out a sigh and tries again. 

“I mean, seriously. This has got to be the world’s suckiest airport, and I’ve been to LaGuardia. At least LaGuardia didn’t smell of smoked fish.” 

The man continues to ignore her, which would be bad enough but he’s the closest life form around and Darcy is just _so freakin’ tired_ of sitting here and not talking to anyone and just waiting. And _waiting_. She hated Tromsø the first time, and really should have known better than go back there.  (The things you do for science and a teeny share of Jane’s latest research grant.) 

Darcy bounces her heel against the leg of her chair.  (Are they chairs when they’re all nailed together like that, or is that a bench?) _Ouch,_ that hurt.  

If at least Jane was still here.  Jane isn’t the world’s chattiest person, but she would probably at least say something like, _so sorry Darcy, and doesn’t air travel suck the big one?_  And then they could roll their eyes at each other and maybe trash Tromsø for a bit.  With words, of course, not for real – Darcy has enough of _that_ kind of trashing to last her a lifetime; she wouldn’t do that, even to Tromsø. 

But now she doesn’t even have Jane for company anymore.  Jane’s going home via some stupid conference in Helsinki, the one Darcy had decided would result in her death from boredom if she went, but which is beginning to look pretty good all things considered.  At least there’d be booze, assuming there’s a reception, not just a pathetic duty-free that closes at eleven.  

Of course, the Helsinki plane got away hours ago, right on schedule, with Jane on it. Bye-bye, company. 

The Oslo plane, the one Darcy was supposed to get on, that’s the one that broke or died or got eaten by Dark Elves or whatever.  And what’s worse, by the time she’ll get to Oslo, her connection to the good old U.S. of A. and a Starbucks on every corner will be long gone.  

To top it all off, her iPhone death-beeped just after that last plaintive text to Jane, and the charger is in her suitcase which the troll at the check-in won’t let her have back ‘for security reasons’.  Security reasons? Seriously, when has Darcy Lewis ever been a threat to anyone, except maybe with a Taser, which they won’t let you bring on airplanes anyway? 

She tries again. 

“I think they should just bring us a new plane rather than try and fix the old one, don’t you? I mean, isn’t that what they do when one breaks?  Bring a new plane?” 

The man looks up briefly.  

“I’m sure they’re working on it,” he says.  “We just have to be patient.  A few hours are nothing in the face of eternity.” 

Oh, hello, _it talks_. Intellectualizes, even. 

Darcy decides to go for it. She crosses the aisle, plunks herself down beside the man and looks over his shoulder. 

“You a philosopher, or something?” she asks, because asking people about what they do makes them feel good about themselves, and is usually a good conversation starter. (PoliSci student, dontcha know.) It always works with Jane, except more often than not you end up wishing you hadn’t asked.  But Jane’s not here, so where’s the harm?

“Whatcher working on?” 

The man gives her a sideways look, but he doesn’t make a move to cover up his paper. Instead, he squints at her just a bit contemptuously, like he’s convinced Darcy wouldn’t have a clue what she’s looking at. 

“I doubt you would understand.” 

Prick. Except – ha! -- she does. The stuff on the page? Looks totally familiar. _Runes._ Like the way Thor explained the BiFrost thing to Jane:  _Norse for Einstein-Rosen_. 

For a moment a small chill creeps down Darcy’s spine.  Seriously, what _are_ the odds? What sort of karma must be sticking to her that she keeps attracting this Asgardian stuff?  But if there’s one thing she’s learned from hanging around Jane Foster and S.H.I.E.L.D. is that when you see a mystery, you better go shine a flashlight at it right away, or else it comes back and bites you in places you’d rather it didn’t. 

“Those scribbles,” she says, stubbing her finger on the man’s note pad with just the right amount of accusation in her voice.  “They look like those little pictures Thor keeps drawing for Jane, the ones that he says are writing of some sort and she thinks are, like, the formula to open a door to the universe or some such thing.  Not that we need another door to the universe, I mean really? Century 21 in Manhattan is _still_ closed from the last one, which really sucks because they had the _best_ sales.  So, what are you using those for?” 

The man stares at her like he’s seen a ghost, but that doesn’t translate into an actual answer. He asks her a question instead. 

“You know _Thor_?” 

Is that what he got from her question?  Maybe she should take interrogation lessons from those S.H.I.E.L.D. guys, like that Coulson dude, the one who still owes her an iPod?  Anyway. 

The guy sounds a little strange when he asks his question -- actually a _lot_ strange, but at least he’s looking at her now and seems ready for some conversational back-and-forth.  Of course, there’s a belated little alarm bell going off in Darcy’s head, because _hello, stranger_ , and so she decides to be diffident.

“Yes, of course I know Thor.  I mean, doesn’t everybody? He’s been all over TV, saving the world twice now – or is it three times?  Not sure that robot thing counts, does it?  Punta-whatsit was _way_ to small for world threatening.  New York and London, well, that would have been awkward if they’d gone down. Anyway, he’s, like, a public figure.” 

Apparently the guy doesn’t buy _diffident._  

“You recognized runic writing,” he says.  “They have never shown that on TV in connection with Thor.”

 _Shit._ Time to be brave, and counter-attack. 

“So why do _you_ have it, then?” Darcy challenges. He doesn’t look particularly threatening -- balding, some fuzz left (thank goodness no comb-over), out of shape and pudgy.  Like a professor-type, or maybe an accountant. 

The man gives her a calculating look.  He has obviously figured out that she’s not going to divulge anything more without at least a formal introduction, so that’s something. 

“Elliot Randolph,” he says, extending his hand.  Darcy takes it cautiously; it’s warm and firm, not clammy.  (Not obviously evil, then.  Those Death Head elves?  Cold, like fish that’s been in the fridge too long.)  “Professor of Norse Mythology at the University of Oslo.” 

“Norse mythology? That’s, like, the study of Thor and that horrible no-good brother of his?  And I don’t care _what_ Jane says about him having redeemed himself a bit, he’s still a total shit and almost got us all killed in New Mexico.  Not to mention what he did to Manhattan.”  Darcy fixes Randolph with her best stare.  “Why would anyone here want to study Thor and his family?” 

He cocks his head a little, and goes all sincere and official. 

“The historical influence of Asgard on this world is fascinating to many,” he says. “Especially now that people know it’s real, not myth.  I am trying to bring the two worlds together, reduce misconceptions through learning and understanding.” 

“You mean, like, Earth-Asgard relations?  Because, you know, those could really use some improving after what Loki did. Thor keeps having to explain how he’s adopted.”  

Darcy can’t help herself.  Politics is her field, a lot more than that door into other universes stuff, although she’s getting pretty good at that, too.  She hasn’t really thought that those things might go together, so, like, _fascinating_.  Future job opportunities? 

“In a way, yes,” Randolph says, and for a moment there’s something sad in his voice. Probably because whatever he’s been teaching for the last few years must be getting jossed on a daily basis now, what with actual Asgardians and other Nine Realm types turning up basically in droves.  He’s probably just making it up as he goes along now.  But he’s definitely interested in what she’s got to say now, and Darcy isn’t quite sure whether she should fret about that, or preen.  “I do hope to meet Thor one day.  The future King of Asgard.  You _do_ know him, don’t you, Miss …?” 

“Lewis. Darcy Lewis.”   

Great. Now why did she give him her name? Not a spy, is Darcy Lewis. But polite. 

“Miss Lewis.” Randolph smiles encouragingly. Oh, now it becomes clear. He’s a Thor fan boy, and she’s the closest he’s ever come to the object of his worship.  “So what’s he like?” 

Darcy is spared the need for an immediate answer by a public announcement in Norwegian. Of course she doesn’t understand a word, but it says _Oslo_ in there somewhere, so maybe it’s about their flight?  She holds up her hand and waits for the lispy English version. 

 _“To the passengers for Scandinavian Flight 4591 to Oslo, we apologize for the delay.  A new aircraft is on its way and is expected shortly.  We will transfer your luggage and expect to be able to board at approximately one thirty a.m.   All passengers who had connecting flights in Oslo will be asked to report to customer service on the ground upon arrival, where you will be given options for your onward journey, and hotel vouchers for the night. Again, we apologize for the inconvenience.”_  

Fab. Darcy looks at her watch. Another hour and a half without food, caffeine or access to the internet.  And that flight to LaGuardia is definitely toast. 

She tosses Randolph a calculating look.  He seems harmless, and interested, so. 

“Thor’s a nice guy. Bit like a great, big teddy bear when he’s not out smashing things up with that hammer or closing up holes in the universe.  Also, built? I mean, you should see him in a t-shirt, not with the cape and chain mail. The guy’s got man boobs of solid steel. I’m actually a bit scared for Jane, because, you know, that whole fragile Earth flower thing? But she seems to be okay with it. Me, I like my guys a bit smaller. Muscly, but not totally bulked up. Like that one S.H.I.E.L.D. guy that used to hang around the pub Punta Antigua, the one that kept hustling people with the dartboard? Oh, and he likes pop tarts and beer. Thor, that is. Not that other guy.” 

There’s a sudden commotion in the hall, shouting, which sounds pretty much like Norwegian for “hold it right there” and “where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Darcy looks over and … 

“Well, looky here, speak of the Devil!  I mean, speak of the God.”  She snorts a little at her own wit. 

Thor comes striding through the waiting area like he owns the place – which he totally could, because he’s carrying Mew-mew and has that flowing red cape and, let’s face it, _because_ – and he’s heading straight for Darcy with a big smile on his face. 

“Darcy,” he booms. “My Lady Jane says your transport has been delayed, and that you are anxious to return home.  May I render assistance and take you to your next destination?” 

Darcy can’t believe her ears.  Thor is a good guy, and helpful around the house, but this?  

“You’re offering me airlift to Oslo?”  

She absolutely tries not to squeak, but she probably does, because _flying with Thor?_ At least it’s not raining and the midnight sun is a bonus, and so she decides to be more excited than panicky. 

“If you wish.” 

Thor waits for her to nod, and turns imperiously to the gaggle of people in uniform who have come running when he crashed through security, as if they could actually do something about it.  

“Guards. Ensure that the Lady Darcy’s belongings are sent to New York.” 

The security dudes kind of mill around a little projecting cluelessness, so Darcy hands them her boarding card.  

“You heard the man,” she says, happy to notice that the squeak is gone and she manages to sound almost imperious.  

But then she remembers Elliot Randolph, who has gone very, very quiet and looks a little seasick. 

“Professor,” Darcy says airily.  “Meet Thor. Thor, meet Professor Randolph. He studies Asgardian stuff and has been _dying_ to meet you.” 

“My Prince,” Randolph stammers.  “It is an honour beyond my station, and my wildest dreams to meet you here, in Midgard.” 

Thor frowns, and that whole jovial look drains from his face.  He grips his hammer a little differently and it’s like there is a sudden chill in the air.  Thor does menace as well as he does affable. 

“You,” he growls. “You are of Asgard?” 

 _Holy shit._ Darcy swallows _. Not another one_ …? Darcy Lewis, alien magnet _._ Her mother would be so proud. 

Randolph answers in a language Darcy doesn’t understand, but it’s pretty clear that Thor isn’t particularly pleased by this latest development; he looks pretty put out actually.  And who could blame him, really, what with the havoc that everyone from Asgard who isn’t him seems to be wreaking as soon as they come to Earth.  

But then Darcy hears the name _Coulson_ coming from Randolph and Thor looks thunderstruck ( _Ha_! Must remember that one) and he exclaims, in English, “The Son of Coul lives?” 

The conversation gets a lot more animated and friendly after that, which is funny, because why _wouldn’t_ Coulson be alive? He certainly was the last time she saw him, in New Mexico. 

They seem to have reached some kind of understanding, and Thor reaches out to clasp Randolph’s arm with his huge hand in some form of Asgardian secret shake, turns to Darcy and everything after that is pretty much a blur, because flying without a plane is really kind of nerve-wrecking, especially holding on to your hand luggage so it doesn’t brain someone on the ground. 

Darcy makes her connection in Oslo, and yes, her hair needs some _serious_ work.  But all things considered, she sure isn’t bored anymore, and that’s a total win.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you ask, yes, “jossed” is a legitimate verb: 
> 
> **joss** , _v., tr_.: to discard, in whole or in part, expectations and preconceived notions as to how a particular universe (* see **‘verse** , _n._ ) should unravel, often through deployment of red herrings or lethal violence, and with utter disregard for the affectionate attachments of other fictional characters or audiences. Etymologically traceable to the verbs "toss" and "jinx", the expression gained currency during the early years of the third Millennium, and is prevalent in cyber-discussion fora such as _tumblr_ and LiveJournal, among aficionados of the Marvel Cinematic Universe and certain early 21st century television shows.


	4. Night Sounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Crazy4Orcas** had a bad day, and asked for a cuddle!fic. But assassins aren’t particularly cuddly people, so this is the best I could do.

His forehead is bathed in sweat, and his breathing loud and uneven, as if he is running in his dream.  His left hand -- not the one on which he habitually rests his head while sleeping, but the one that’s on top the light down comforter -- are twitching as if he is trying to restrain himself from reaching for a weapon. 

Another nightmare, then. 

Natasha studies the face of her partner (her friend, her lover) in the dim, grey morning light that has just started to seep into the small apartment. Those familiar features, so much younger-looking when his eyes aren’t scanning the world like twin lasers, are twisted by whatever agonies his mind keeps putting on repeat whenever he sleeps. 

She debates waking him, but she knows he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep and would head to the range instead, to exorcise the latest of his league of inner demons with his bow.  Sleep deprivation was but one item on the long list of Loki’s transgressions against Clint Barton, and remains one of his legacies – adding to that is the last thing Clint needs. Even if it means keeping him inside his nightmare until it finally wakes him. 

She cares about him a great deal more (and a great deal differently) than she’d been willing to admit until that phone call from Coulson.  But even before then, they’ve always _done_ for each other, as partners, as friends.  Whatever it took – stitches, a slap in the face, hours of silence or screaming. 

Then how is this different, just because his head is on the pillow next to hears, and they’re under the same blanket? 

Natasha is momentarily at a loss.  Uncertainty and doubt are not in her nature, and helplessness is not a feeling she cares to examine too closely. 

She surprises herself by wanting to reach out, to touch, but she knows from experience that waking him that way can have rather predictable (or worse, unpredictable) results; that time in Kampala only her own quick reflexes had saved her from a broken jaw. 

Natasha listens to the rapid staccato of his breath, so like her own when she was running from the Hulk – not Banner, no, the _Hulk_ , the … _Other_ , a snarling harbinger of rage and death now coming for her behind her wide-open eyes. Her heartbeat starts racing with the memories. 

She watches Clint’s hand ball into a fist, her own ability to return to sleep now held hostage to the same price his subconscious insists on exacting. 

And then she hears it, a voice from so far away that it may itself be a dream. A memory of days erased again and again, blacked out by pain and ice and too much red, but still _there_.  

Still hers to have – and to give.  

_Ssshhhh._

Almost without thought she starts to copy the sound, shapes it from pursed lips -- more a breath than anything, an exhalation, then a breeze caressing Clint’s face. Her hand follows, not a touch, just warmth on his cheek, carried closer by the sound.  

She suppresses a surprised smile as Clint twitches once more and begins to still. 

Natasha allows her fingers to settle on his, butterfly-light, lets her hair brush across his face. He mutters something and she takes that as permission to move closer him and turn, until her back touches his chest. She molds her legs to follow the curve of his – he always sleeps with one pulled up -- and puts her head under his chin.   She pulls his arm across her waist, still over the covers but its weight an extra blanket in the retreating dark. 

She smiles a little as his hand tightens briefly, and she can feel his lips in her hair and a breath that might be her name, or an echo of the sound she’d shaped for him. 

 _‘Tasha.’_    

Clint’s breath and his heartbeat slow down; his hand relaxes and in the warm circle of her partner’s arms Natasha’s own mind starts drifting again, sinking into the silence. 

Maybe she can do this after all?  

Maybe they both can.

 


	5. Air Raids Permitting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love steam punk; it’s an aesthetic that is perfectly suited for the Avengers. (I mean, have you looked at Asgard??) So when I saw **inkvoices** ’ prompt for a "steam punk A/U," my own little gears started whirring. The title comes from a throwaway line in "Parade's End" that somehow stuck in my mind – and while WW1 may technically be on the outer edge of the steampunk era, they did have zeppelins, so.

“Sir, the air raid has started.  And the Captain …” 

“Not now, Jarvis, I’m busy.”  Sir Anthony Stark held the two glasses against the light.  The amber liquid reflected the light beautifully as he swirled each in turn. “Yes, the one on the left, definitely.” 

He turned to his guest. 

“See, Doctor Banner, it’s all in the way the light refracts off the molecules. In the Ardbeg there is just the slightest deviation into the ochre spectrum, compared to the Glenfiddich. And it’s that peculiar deviation …” 

“Sir, Captain Rogers is quite insistent.  He requires your authorization to deploy the Iron Man.  Sir.” 

The sound of a zeppelin engine fractured the night, accompanied by the ack-ack-ack of the unit’s Thompson guns and an ominous rumble.  The rumble ended in a percussive shockwave that caused the tent walls to flutter for a moment, followed by the muffled sound of an explosion. 

“I said, not now, Jarvis.  I am conducting an important science experiment with our guest, and failure to conclude it properly would make him very angry.  And believe me, you do _not_ want to see Dr. Banner angry.” 

“I can wait,” the Doctor said, with a sideways glance at Sir Anthony’s batman. “Air raids are … important too. Aren’t they?” 

Sir Anthony sighed deeply. 

“ _Nothing_ is more important than being able to identify the correct single malt on sight.  Your life, or more precisely, your happiness might depend on it some day.” 

Another explosion shook the ground and the tent flap few open.  A tall figure covered in mud stood at the entrance, breathing heavily. 

“General,” the Captain pressed out, gulping for air.  “The Iron Man?” 

The Doctor cast a questioning glance at his host, who gave a deprecating shrug and a little eyeroll. 

“It’s what we call our big artillery piece.  Sort of like a gun.  It takes a while to get warmed up, but once it does …”  

He turned to the Captain.  “Fine. Power it up.  Don’t forget to arm the repulsors this time. And in the meantime, tell that sniper of yours to earn his pay.  Now, Doctor Banner, as for the Balvenie, you will see …” 

Captain Rogers saluted sharply and stood still for a few seconds, catching his breath, before heading back to the outer trenches at a crisp trot.  

The zeppelins had multiplied in the night; the lights of the single Thor biplane that Headquarters had allotted them illuminated the whale-shaped hulls at irregular intervals. The pilot was obviously looking for appropriate target points, but having to keep the rickety contraption in the air seemed to command most of his attention.  At best, he served as a distraction to the enemy bombers that were increasingly finding their target. 

Rogers reached the end of the trench – closest to the enemy dugouts -- where the sniper’s nest was located. 

“Corporal Barton,” he bellowed.  “General’s orders. Fire at will!” 

Barton spat a curse that caused his companion to turn her head. 

“Vat?” she asked, her Russian accent occasionally made stronger by the adrenaline coursing through both their veins.  Barton liked it. In fact, he liked it a lot. 

“Seems like our fearless leadership has decided, first of all, that we may shoot at the ships that are kicking our butts and second, that the thing to use against an aerial attack is … a bow and arrow.” 

“Well, that is what we’ll use then.”  

The redheaded corporal nodded decisively.  Women were still rare in the army, rarer still at the front, but this one had proven her mettle more than any of the men Barton had worked with combined.  They had become quite a team over the last few months, ever since the battle of Budapest. 

“I don’t see how,” he said.  “I mean, I’m good, but …” 

“What are zeppelins made of?”  Romanoff asked him. “Skin around gas, right?” 

“Pretty much. Or so Sergeant Coulson says.” 

“So – what do you know about gas?” 

 _It burns._  

“Flaming arrows?”

Romanoff smiled and started to take off her uniform jacket, cutting the fabric into thin strips. Barton felt his lips go dry at the sight of her … 

 _Focus, Barton._  

She dowsed the strips in the oil they used to keep the guns running in the mud and the rain, then lit a torch and held it high.  Barton tried very hard to ignore the extent to which she resembled the Statue of Liberty at the moment. 

“Ready?” 

He nocked an arrow, touched the tip to the torch and let fly. 

“Try and hit the ones that are over the enemy trenches,” she reminded him, rather unnecessarily. Two birds, one stone had always been his specialty.  It was truly amazing how well they understood one another. 

One by one, the air ships went down in a ball of fire; by the time the Iron Man was ready to deploy, none were left. 

Barton turned to Romanoff, who had begun to shiver in the cool night. 

“So who needs the big guns?” he said jovially as he gallantly (if somewhat regretfully) hung his own jacket over her shivering shoulders.  “You want to get a drink, or something?” 

She reached up to caress his cheeks with her oil-smudged hand. 

“I could use a drink,” she purred.  “ _And_   ‘something’.  Air raids permitting.”

 

 


	6. The “All Things Friday” Post-Cap2 Three-Sentence-Fic-a-thon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promptathons is one of the things **be_compromised** does best.

**SneakyHufflepuff:  “** _Steve attempts to match-make for Natasha.”_

 

.... 

 

"Banner's a nice enough guy, don't you think, at least when he's not trying to crush your skull with a steel girder?"

 "Or what about Sam -- he can't run worth a damn, but he can sure sweep a woman off her feet."

 "Oh, hey, I got it: If you went out with Barton, you'd already have a theme neckla ... _oh_.”

 

* * *

 

  

 _Not strictly post-Cap2, but an annoying thing that sometimes happens in post-movie discussions, apparently – also from_ **SneakyHufflepuff _:  “_** _Natasha overhears people calling Hawkeye useless.”_

_....._

She thinks how close they came to losing the war against Loki and the Chitauri, how they might have if the so-called God hadn't lost access to Clint's mind by the grace of an iron railing.

She remembers the arrow that knocked Loki off his sled, and gave her and Selvig the tool to close the portal against an alien invasion.

And then she thinks of the look in his eyes when he told her that it was okay to be broken, but that you didn't need to stay that way -- and she finds that she just doesn't give a shit what anyone else on the planet has to say about the man who saved her life.

 

* * *

  

 _How could I resist this one?  From_ **Inkvoices _: “_** _Straighteners”_

.....

 

Stark's inventions can be a menace, especially in the hands of less-than-competent SHIELD techs. Natasha recoils when she sees her reflection in the mirror, right after those rays emanating from the lab had made her head feel funny. Maybe the effects will wash out, but there's no time for that now; as she heads out to pick up Steve for their mission, she hopes this isn't a sign of how the rest of her week will go. 

 

* * *

 

 _Also from_ **Inkvoices _:_   “** _It's not flying; it's falling with style.” (She loves Sam W., so.)_

 

_....._

Sam digs himself out from the snowdrift for the umpteenth time, cursing and spitting out flakes; how's the stuff even getting into his crotch, through that uniform? If anyone had told him that before soaring like a falcon he'd be spending _weeks_ flopping around like a penguin, he might have reconsidered enrolling in the program. But then he thinks about all the things he could do when he finally manages to get those wings under control, grits his teeth and takes off again.

 

* * *

 

 _Every fic-a-thon has to go there. I s’pose – and_ **theladymore** _did_ **:**

_"We've got plenty of time now....Let's go to Budapest."_

 

..... 

 

"I suppose one advantage of no longer having a pay check coming in, is that no one expects you to show up for work on Monday, either."

Despite -- or maybe because of -- his shitty childhood and the betrayals that wind through his life like a strand of black pearls (and wasn't that last one a doozy?), Clint has always been in the business of chasing silver linings.

"So we could try and see whether those baths are any good for relaxing, not just for dodging goons with Kalashnikovs."

 

 

* * *

  

 _And then **desertport** said in a comment,_ _“Now I want fic with them dodging goons in a Budapest bath house!” So I wrote a sequel:_

 

..... 

 

"I thought you said no goons, Barton -- so what the hell are these guys doing here?!"

Natasha flicks the towel into her attacker's eye, causing him to scream in pain, and watches with grim satisfaction as he slips on the soap and cracks his skull on the granite fountain.

Satisfied that the man whose head he has been holding underwater has stopped breathing, Clint tut-tuts mildly and points out that for _real_ goons, they'd have had to put their clothes back on. 

 

* * *

 

From **Philstar22** came this: **"** _If this man is just a job, then why does he seem so familiar?"  Oh, Bucky ..._

 

_....._

He is a void, a nothing, a whirl of blank thoughts -- a canvas on which others draw their desires, then conceal them again with a blanket of white.

"I’ll be with you to the end of the line."

A thought slows down: he catches it, tastes it – snow, turning to water on his tongue.

  

* * *

 

 _Not strictly post-Cap2 either, but every Avengers writer has to commit one of these, right?_ **Desertport** _tossed it out:_   _“In the middle of a mission, Clint and Natasha are both de-aged to preteen-hood.”  So glad I could get this done in three sentences ... ;-)_

_....._

"You know, how those bots, like, fired that ray thing at us, Mr. Stark?"

Clint would be telling the man in the funky red suit the story himself, but the words just won't come; he looks at the little red-headed girl with a plea in his eyes, hoping she won't tell him _everything_. 'Coz being hit by ray guns is embarrassing enough, but realizing he'd been kissing a _girl_ when it happened -- _eww, gross_.

****


	7. La Guardia, 6 p.m.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last but not least (I think?): One of the LJ comms I hang out in has a regular "pic fic" contest. Fics are generally PWP-ish, rich in UST or RST and must be under 600 words. (I've putzed with it a bit since, and it may be slightly over that now.) 
> 
> Anyway, here it is. Expect no redeeming features... Rated M for some heavy innuendo -- technically possibly still a “T”, but I've run into issues with ratings and stuff before, so I aimed high, just in case.

                                                    

He emerges from the arrivals hall sooner than expected, one of the first passengers out, the benefit of carry-on and business class travel. 

It should a bit obscene, she thinks, that a man returning home fresh from decimating not one, but _two_ Mexican drug cartels – twenty-seven confirmed kills, not counting the minions that ended up shooting each other in the fallout -- should look this relaxed. 

The backpack on his shoulder has a familiar bulge on the outside, and Natasha briefly wonders what (if anything) airport security made of the oddly shaped pieces that make up his composite bow and collapsible arrows.  Thanks to SHIELD’s R&D Department, everything is made of carbon fiber and high-density resin rather than metal, which somehow allows Clint Barton to get away with sticking one of the deadliest instruments on Earth into the overhead luggage compartment. 

He looks good, dammit, dressed in his favourite grey jeans, grey t-shirt and shades, like a grad student coming home from a field trip to the Mayan pyramids.  She wonders how long she’ll be able to keep her hands off him in the name of public decency; that new little bit of scruff on his face practically begs to be licked off. 

His soft “Hey!” disrupts her thoughts. The glint in his eyes gets deeper and the grin threatens to split his face as he takes in the cut of the blouse she’d decided to wear to the airport. 

“Hey yourself,” she breathes, trying very hard (and failing) to ignore the sudden pooling of raw want that threatens to melt down her core at the sound of his voice.   She finds herself moving alongside him, matching his stride towards the end of the barrier that separates passengers from those waiting. 

“Didn’t expect you to pick me up, darlin’,” he drawls.  “One would almost think you missed me.” 

She suppresses the sudden urge to smack him. 

But then they’re face to face, and her hands wrap around his neck seemingly of their own volition, just as his settle on her hips to pull her impossibly close.  He smells of sun and coffee (no, that’s coming from the backpack – his usual souvenir of Chiapas Dark Roast) and an underlay of cordite; the feel of his hard body against her breasts makes her head spin. 

Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, reduced to a creature of base instinct and desire by her partner?  She might consider killing him for that, if his tongue weren’t currently exploring her mouth without any pretense at restraint, and if his fingers weren’t kneading her ass in a way you just can’t replicate on Skype. 

She grinds into him a little harder, smirking in triumph as his roaming hands discover just why that tight skirt she’s wearing has no visible panty line.  His response is immediate and gratifying, and it’s only the dim recollection that there are other passengers in the terminal that prevents her from reaching for him right then and there. 

He buries his face in the crook of her neck, tasting her skin with his tongue and takes a deep, shuddering breath. 

“Let’s get out of here.  Another minute and I won’t be able to walk,” he hisses. 

She gives a quick return lick into his ear -- over those headphones -- before turning primly away, in the direction of the Parkade.  She can feel the heat of his body behind her, in an excellent position to observe just what those stiletto sandals do for her gait. 

“I guess you’ll be glad to hear that I brought a van, then.” 

It’s been a long month.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Mountain Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye reflects on being human, while fighting something that definitely isn't alongside two people who aren't (quite). Inspired by pictures from the set of "Avengers: Age of Ultron." (ETA: Of course, this has been totally overtaken by events, but, eh.)
> 
> Also, I figured I might as well keep using this "story" as the place to put little things. Like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the PicFic challenge on **rennerobsession**. The only rule: 600 words or less. This one clocked in at 598. Ha! 
> 
> I pounced on the opportunity to set down on paper (figuratively speaking) my new head canon around those photos and the post-credit scene in Cap2 -- namely that Clint's been on a mission to track down Scarlet Witch and Quicksilver, and ends up rescuing them from their HYDRA captors.

 

 

Sometimes, being human really sucks. 

Okay, given what Clint does for a living and how that would be a lot easier if he could fly or throw a house, being human sucks pretty much 24/7.  He spares a glance at the pretty girl gesturing beside him – yeah, he shouldn’t call a woman that but dammit, this one can’t be older than fifteen -- even _she_ can do shit that isn’t in the Barton family specs. 

Good thing the twins are on his side (and grateful to him for getting them out of that HYDRA pit), because that metal behemoth is now heading straight for them.  As he nocks his last remaining explosive arrow, Clint bemoans the days when the worst thing he ever had to shoot was goons with lousy tattoos.  

Fuck, this is getting old.  _Run, shoot, stare in disbelief at the lack of visible impact, repeat._ His shoulders hurt where he got hit by a rock, and his arms are on fire from pulling the bowstring a hundred times.  And he’s not even getting paid for this shit anymore, not since Rogers closed down SHIELD, hosed it out and took the light bulbs.  (Small consolation – turns out, most of those jerks in Finance really _were_ Nazis; must remind Tasha he was right about that.)

 _Natasha._ It’s been too long. 

The machine slows down somewhat, thanks to Wanda -- thank God for competent women – and Clint finally gets the shot he needs; the arrow buries itself in the thing’s eye slit.  (Just why does an Imperial Walker need eyes anyway?  Although right now, the designer’s fondness for anthropo… _human_ design comes in handy.) 

 _Focus, Barton._ He clicks the remote detonator. One, two, three – _boom._

An electrical spark crackles all around the metal chassis; Pietro races around the thing a few times to create a kind of vortex (guy’s an arrogant little shit with a dorky call sign, but he can sure _move_ ).  The machine falls over, twitches a couple of times and stops moving; an eerie silence descends over the village square.  Three cheers for teamwork. 

One down, who knows how many to go; they’re all over, according to CNN, and now even in Disneyesque mountain villages. What they need is to find the spawning grounds, not take the suckers out one at a time. 

Clint has barely finished that thought when his sat phone rings. 

“Hawkeye.  You done there?  Doing anything tonight?”

 _Tasha?_  

“Tell me you’re in touch with Fury and Rogers and the others, and that there’s a plan.  ‘Cause this game of whack-a-mole really, really sucks.” 

“I missed you too, Clint.” 

“Sorry,” he sighs.   “Adrenaline hasn’t worn off yet.  Plus, I’ve got rubble in places where it has no business being.” 

There is silence at the other end of the phone. Then, “So.  About tonight?” 

Wanda and Pietro are giving him funny looks, and Clint points apologetically to his phone, mouthing something about _home base_.  But the locals are emerging from behind shuttered windows, and it’s time to go. 

“Absolutely.  Name the place.  As long as it’s not here.” 

He assumes she knows where _here_ is; probably has eyes on the place, thanks to some residual S.H.I.E.L.D. tech. 

“You should be able to make Belgrade by eight. And yes, there _is_ a plan.” He can hear the smile in her voice when she adds, “But with any luck, there’ll be time to get the rubble out of your uniform and give you a nice backrub.” 

He snaps the phone shut with a grin. _Backrub?_ Maybe being human isn’t that bad after all.


	9. Vindaloo Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The impact of gamma rays on the human metabolism is a well documented, if classified, phenomenon. Less understood is the effect of certain Indian spice mixtures on the Asgardian digestive tract.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So **crazy4orcas** and **CloudAtlas** had this head canon exchange, about how Clint and Natasha like to cook spicy food; how maybe the first time they cooked for the team Bruce would _totally_ troll Tony by inhaling it without blinking (after all, he lived in Calcutta …). And then this happened.

  
Thor shovels the lamb vindaloo into his mouth with his usual gusto, blissfully ignoring the expectant stares from the two assassin cooks. Tony eyes him as he would a science experiment, while Bruce sits absolutely still, his own fork frozen in midair.

"Wait," Steve sounds concerned. "Do we have any idea exactly what impact this kind of stuff could have on the Asgardian digestive system?"

"Not yet," Tony says serenely as Thor swallows. "But I suspect it will be only a question of time."

The cheerful expression on Thor’s face suddenly changes to a frown, and he rubs his chest.

"I am not responsible for whatever happens here," Bruce points out, obviously torn between sticking around to watch and finishing his vindaloo for his own happiness, and removing himself from the battlefield for everyone else’s.

Thor opens his mouth, but it isn’t to speak — nothing comes out; his face contorts a little as he is obviously trying to expel … something. Natasha and Clint exchange slightly worried glances; neither of them looks at Steve, who is wearing his _I-told-you-so_ face.

"Let it out, man," Clint encourages Thor. "Good solid burp, and you’ll feel better."

In truth, everyone expects the belch to be spectacular, Norse-God-sized.

Nobody, however, expects the three-foot flame.

"So that’s what it does," Tony mutters as he lunges for the fire extinguisher by the kitchen cupboard.

Thor, by now, is smiling again. He wipes the soot off his chin and bangs his fist on the table with undisguised glee.

"Another!"


	10. Beach Blanket Bingo: Cancùn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fun at the beach with Natasha and Clint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the **be_compromised** "All The Things Friday" exchange, to this prompt by **sgflutegirl** : _Clint and Natasha being forced to take a vacation (reason up to the writer). They hate it at first, but end up enjoying themselves anyway._
> 
> Now slightly edited, because you should never really post something written on a Friday night (around a couple of glasses of wine) without having read it through a few times.

"What the hell do you mean, _vacation_?" 

"First of all, Barton, it's _what the hell do you mean, SIR_.  And second, vacation is that thing you do where you don't do anything." 

"And why exactly would we want to do -- or not do -- that, _sir_?"  

Clint's voice has taken on that quality when you can practically see the green acid dripping from the speech bubble.  Natasha is staying out of it for now.  It’s always better to let her partner flatten the enemy with a blast -- she'll come in after and slit the throats of the ones still writhing. 

"You have been carrying out seventeen missions in a row, agents," Coulson piles on.  "The only days you haven't been out in the field, were when one of you was in Medical.  You may think you're still sharp, but the truth is, you're both losing your edge.  It's time for a break before you crack." 

Fury briefly frowns at Coulson before directing a pre-emptive, baleful glare at Natasha. 

"We're sending you to a place where they mix drinks far better than Coulson here does metaphors."  

He makes the talk-to-the-hand gesture before Natasha can so much as raise her voice.   The Director has made up his mind, that much is clear. 

"You _will_ go.  Not negotiable.  SHIELD is paying, so consider this another mission.  We've reserved a spot for you at the Marriott resort in Cancùn, and yes, we got you a double room with a king-sized bed.  And don't even bother pretending that you're not actually sleeping with each other.  We have video.  Quinjet's picking you up at five sharp; Whether you pack a bikini and swimming trunks is up to you, although I would highly recommend that you do.  Dismissed."

 

…..

 

"So, what do you think?"  

Clint squints at Natasha over his beer, and the rim of his sunglasses.  She's not sure whether she should be concerned that he doesn’t seem to be staring at bits of her bikini-clad body.  (Bored already, Barton?) 

It's their second day of sitting by the pool, swimming in the pool, or walking around the pool to get to the ocean (repeat).  Right now, they’re by the ocean, on a beach lined with white chaiselongues and straw sun covers; white sand, murmuring surf  -- the works.  They’ve long since stopped arguing whether the proper term for the water is _azure, turquoise, cerulean_ or _aquamarine_ , and as far as Natasha is concerned, next week can't come soon enough.  

Her hands clutch the daiquiri as if she could crush the glass, and she barely manages to keep the irritation out of her voice. 

"What do I think of what?  _Vacation?_  Fury’s idea of punishment for the Florence fuck-up."  

Clint heaves a sigh. 

"No, what do you think of those two guys over there by the bar.  Jalisco or Juarez?  I say Jalisco.  They have that  _narcotraficante,_  uni-browed thug thing going in a pretty spectacular way." 

Natasha follows Clint's eyes -- so _that's_ where they have been …  Forgiveness is instantaneous as her world brightens.  He’s right: the two men, deep in conversation, have Organized Crime written all over their hirsute bodies. 

A small smile curls her lips, and she drains her daiquiri before gracefully rising from her lounger.  

“I'll go find out.  A _cuba libre_ says they’re Juarez.  Maybe Tijuana.  I don’t see any tattoos.” 

“The Tijuana cartel?  In Cancùn?”  Clint raises a disbelieving eyebrow.  “Seriously?  You’re on, lady.”

 

….

 

Clint has dozed off by the time she gets back to her chaiselongue.  Bastard didn’t even bother to watch the proceedings?  She allows the condensation from the ice-cold drink to drip on his bare stomach and nods in satisfaction when he yelps in surprise. 

“Score one _cuba libre_ for you, Barton,” she smirks.  “Jalisco.  The tattoos were hidden in the chest hair.” 

He reaches for his glass, and lets his tongue catch one of the drops, then gives the lemon a languid lick until it falls into the drink.  The things that man does with his mouth should be prohibited under international law.  Not to mention those abs … 

A thought strikes her.   There are thirteen major drug cartels in Mexico, and Cancùn is neutral ground.  This is where they all come for their margaritas, no matter what Clint might think.    

“If spotting one cartel is worth a  _cuba libre,_ how much for a full bingo?” 

Clint looks at her thoughtfully over his straw, making little slurpy noises while thinking.  He’s interested, but ground rules are important. 

“Bingo, huh.  We playing full contact, or dry?” 

“You have your methods to get confirmation, I have mine.  Don’t cause any unnecessary paperwork, though.”  

Clint blows her a kiss to seal the deal, lets his eyes rake over her body.  She gives him her most seductive  _Black-Widow-bats-her-lashes_  look. The man catches on quickly; his next words settle the deal.    

 

“As for the prize?  I say, winner’s choice.” 

Maybe Fury did know what he was doing, sending them here.  Things are definitely looking up.

 

                 


	11. Veni, Vidi, Vici

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barton and Romanoff do paperwork. Meet the civilian casualties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, over on LJ’s **be_compromised** , we had a thing last week on “Assassins and Administration. And **Frea_O** said that, “ _I really want a fic where Clint gets bored of writing reports and starts using a thesaurus to make things more interesting, much to the annoyance of the records office._ " This may be not quite that fic, but I think the basic idea is there…
> 
> ETA: There is a bonus "post-credits" scene in the comments to this chapter ...

“Aw, Hawkeye, _no!_ ” 

Seema Singh looks up at Manny Gonzales’ anguished yelp. His voice carries an undercurrent of genuine suffering, which is not surprising, given there is a three-month accumulation of Strike Team Delta reports between them, waiting to be entered into the system. Coulson must have come up with one hell of an innovative threat to get them to deal with the backlog. 

That said, they’d rock-paper-scissor-lizard-Spocked over who would do whose reports. Seema had flamed out spectacularly and drawn _Romanoff_ , while Manny, the lucky dog, had walked off with Barton. She’s still on her very first report, which the Black Widow had decided to make ‘more interesting’ by writing it in Latin. (Google translate is useful, but it does have its limits.) 

So what is Manny’s problem, apart from too many blessings to count? 

 _Shot target +2 PPOs; 3x reg arrows._ _Ø collateral damage.  CB minor scrape L shoulder; shower accident._ The end.  That is as epic as Clint ‘I’m-no-Bureaucrat-I-Kill-People’Barton usually gets, and Manny’s pile should be half done already.   

Seema raises a questioning eyebrow. 

“Barton gone Sitwell on you again? I thought Coulson handled all of these missions.”  

Ever since the WSC introduced ‘Results-Based Management’ as the basis for bonuses and promotions, the great Jasper S. seems convinced that success depends on verbal inflation, and whatever agents he’s handling take lessons in hyperbole. The one time Sitwell had been in charge of Delta Team, Barton had been as terse as usual on the substantive bits, but had described his own injuries in such rousing terms that Seema had to take a Gravol. 

Manny shakes his head. 

“Worse. He’s turned polysyllabic, and not in a good way.” 

Seema is not sympathetic.  Romanoff tends to register her displeasure with reporting through excessive detail (or maybe she’s practicing for that romance novel she has in her?):   _Target entered at 20:03 and apologized for the delay; conversation focused on loss of Russian hockey team to Canadians at World Championship. Reassured target that cover was a_ US _national,_ not _Canadian.  Target initiated physical contact (left hand, right thigh, trying to locate the space between stocking and garter) at 20:37…_ Bad enough in English -- but in Latin?  

“Trade ya.” 

He ignores her. 

“Listen to this:  _Following disembarkation from aerial transport we proceeded to descend uni-directionally at sub-gravitational-pull speed towards the preliminary assembly point, located at approximately 4_ _° 01’ 41” W_.” 

Gonzales does a pretty uncanny Hawkeye, actually, right down to the mid-western twang.  Seema can feel her lips forming themselves into an involuntary ‘o’ shape. 

“Still not as bad as Sitwell’s stuff, though. I don’t think that guy’s teams have had an air drop where they weren’t _buffeted by gale-force winds and down to the last reserve chute seconds before landing inside a field of rabid bulls_ since February.”  She totally cannot resist the lure of air quotes.  “I’ll take clinical detail over purple prose any day.” 

“Clinical?” Gonzales sputters in indignation. “That, I could handle.  This is technobabble, almost like reading one of Simmons’ dissections.  I’m going to need a fucking dictionary just to figure out whether he made the kill or not, and _he’s_ writing in English.” 

Seema flips through Romanoff’s account and shrugs. “It says here at the end, “… _duo homines exeunt_ _summa cum praeiudicio_.  Sounds like _somebody_ died on this mission, anyway.  We just need to figure out who, and whether there were bystanders.” 

“Yeah, but what does _exsanguination due to lateral perforation of the external carotid artery_ mean? Hand me the thesaurus?” 

“Shot through the neck,” a soft but firm voice comes from the doorway, “And bled to death.  How bad is it?” 

“Bad, sir.  Both of them.”  Seema knows she looks haunted, and doesn’t care.  Whatever Coulson did to get Barton and Romanoff to file these things, he has to take responsibility for the outcome.  And if that includes psych counseling for the records clerks, so be it.  “I’m just surprised at Hawkeye.  He’s normally more … comprehensible.  Once you get used to his handwriting, that is.” 

Coulson shrugs apologetically. 

“Rumlow called Barton an _uneducated carnie_ while he thought his hearing aids were out. Took us a whole day to reinstate the man’s access codes, payroll, pension, and benefits, but apparently that wasn’t … enough.”

Ah.  Coulson won’t say it out loud, of course, but if Hawkeye has a sore spot, it’s the fact that he is surrounded by college grads, and him with no more than Grade Six on the books.  (No matter what he’s taught himself since, or picked up in the school of hard knocks.) And Romanoff?  You attack one partner, the other draws blood. 

Manny, too, understands perfectly and redirects his fury on the spot. 

“Can’t we make Rumlow enter the data, sir?” he asks hopefully.  “I mean, as a disciplinary thing?” 

Coulson’s brow furrows in thought. He cocks a questioning eyebrow at Seema. 

“Romanoff wrote hers in Latin,” she flips through the stack of reports in the Black Widow’s spidery handwriting, “Greek, Thai and … Bulgarian, I think.  If I read the Cyrillic properly.  But they were in Sofia, so.” 

Coulson’s frown deepens, but Manny has clearly decided where his loyalties lie.  

“I don’t think Barton and Romanoff have any idea that these things have to be entered manually by someone.  That there’d be any collateral damage.”  With a side-glance at Seema, he adds defiantly, “I don’t hold it against them under the circumstances, sir.” 

Seema nods her agreement, and Coulson comes to a decision.  He picks up the phone and hits the button for the intercom. 

“Coulson to Agent Rumlow.  Please report to Records, on the double.” He lowers the handset and cups his hand over it.  “You two go for a coffee break. It’s baklava day; take your time.” 

Seema and Manny exchange a smile, and a high five on their way out.  She turns briefly in the door, only to hear Coulson speak again, this time into his cellphone. 

“Natasha?” he says, “Go find Barton and meet me in the cafeteria in ten.  I’d like you to meet someone.”

 

 

 


	12. For the Record

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day after the battle for New York, and certain things need cleaning up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for **happilydancing** , on the occasion of her birthday. A sequel of sorts, to _Veni, Vidi Vici_ \-- aka Chapter 11 -- and the "post-credit" scene I stuck into the comments to that chapter.

Seema Singh heads for the Records Office, afraid of what she will find.  Yesterday, when she’d left for the emergency evac that never came, things had been mostly intact -- but that was before the Hulk’s rampage; before the second engine blew out.  

Her fears are justified, as it turns out:  There are metal struts blocking the way to her desk, glass and dust everywhere, and one of the walls is missing altogether.    

"I guess S.H.I.E.L.D. is moving to the Open Office concept a bit sooner than we thought?"    

Manny Gonzalez’ voice comes over her shoulder with a jollity she knows he doesn't actually feel.   

"Welcome to Dilbert World, the Loki edition.  Next stop, the open-air cubicle."   

Seema sighs. The cleanup crew has prioritized the bridge and hangar areas of the helicarriers (can't really argue with that, objectively speaking), but it sure would be nice if they'd made it onto at least page three of the repair schedule.  And they’ve been asked to _work_ in this mess? 

"Would it have been too much to ask for one of those panels to fall on my _computer_ , instead of just my lunch?  Make yourself useful, Manny, and help me lift that thing."   

It takes them a few minutes, because Seema doesn't want to cut her hands on the sharp metal and Manny, for all of his fanboying over those _cut_ _guys_ in S.H.I.E.L.D., doesn't have any upper-body strength to speak of.  (He’s rather sunken-chested, in a cute!nerdy kind of way.)   

"Screw this," she says, and sweeps the rest of the debris on the floor, including the hastily scribbled report from Romanoff's mission in Moscow that had been on her to-do list when all hell broke loose.  Seriously.   _Who cares?_  

Manny looks at her with a knowing eye.    

"Getting rid of some dog files?  Great idea."  He picks up his in-basket, the only thing on his own desk not covered in shrapnel, and dumps the contents.  “Oopsies.”   

"PTSD therapy lite," Seema snickers before she turns serious again, allowing her pissed-offness to show through.  "I can't believe Pierce just expects everyone to come into work the day after Armageddon. _Let’s all pull together_ , my ass. Easy for him to say – he’s in frigging DC.  I mean, even _Hill_ got to take the morning off."   

Seema knows that's not really fair, given what went down on the bridge and how the Council has put the Deputy on its agenda for testimony this afternoon. (No doubt they're looking for a scapegoat of some kind.) 

But … still.  What are they thinking, up there in the Triskelion -- that admin staff come with _instant recovery_ as a secret superpower?     

Well, it seems no one else has shown up for work; she and Manny are apparently the only people stupid enough to have heeded the call to duty.  _Screw the lot of them, and Alexander Pierce in particular._ She kicks at a piece of metal plate that must have fallen off the ceiling.  Maybe this is a good time to ask for a transfer?  Seema has no wish to be indelicate, given S.H.I.EL.D.’s losses in the last twenty-four hours, but there should be some new jobs opening up.  Shouldn’t there? 

“Do you think I’d make a good field agent, Manny?  I’m sick of this admin crap.  Nobody appreciates us.”   

Manny is a loyal friend.  (Okay, so he also has a crush on her, but, whatever.)  He knows what answer is called for, and he delivers. 

“Absolutely.  You’re smart, you’re in great shape, you speak eight languages …”    

He hesitates a little, and drops his voice to _we-shouldn’t-really-be-talking-about-this_  level.     

“I’ve been thinking myself, See.  You know, there’s that new classified project, in Washington?  It’s all hush hush and still in the planning stage. I’ve seen some of the plans go through though, and it looks really cool.  Maybe if I could get in on the ground floor, I could train up for something in Ops later?  Whaddya think?”   

Seema glances at him fondly and nods encouragingly.  _Manny, and his dream about Ops._  Just as silly as her own ambitions to be a field agent. _They’re clerks, dammit._ She starts her computer, watching it hum to life.     

“I _think_ that we should just get on with our job here,” she says.  “Hill needs the summary by four; she’s on with the Council at five.  You know how she gets when she doesn’t have her facts in front of her.”   

Amazingly, both their workstations are not only whole but fully functional, as are the links to most of the Helicarrier’s security cameras and internal data recorders.  What they've been asked to do is a bit like that PBS special chronicling the Kennedy assassination -- a whole day recorded, minute-by-minute.  _Who was where, when, why  –_ work that should be done by half a dozen people, in twice the time.   

Once they’ve finished arguing over who takes what sections, the two of them work in silence, zipping through footage, typing notes.  For a while, all that can be heard (in between the clanging coming from engine repairs) is the clickety-clack of keyboards.  Screens flicker with images, called up in rapid succession and fast-forwarded; relevant facts are noted down.   _Next_.  

Seeing Ironman in action, fixing the engine, is kind of exciting -- although maybe not entirely relevant to the task at hand.  (Seema _always_ wanted to fly.)  She zaps through the footage quickly, pausing only to zoom in on the red-white-and-blue figure of Captain America, dancing through the struts like a trapeze artist.  Avoiding bullets?  _Cool._  

She winces involuntarily at the footage of the Hulk and that Asgardian guy -- Thor? -- duking it out in the hangar, and dutifully records the number of busted up Quinjets.  Was that what they were like, fighting in Manhattan?  _Whoa._ No wonder the aliens lost. 

Then there’s the Captain again, with Hawkeye and Black Widow a step behind, the two of them side by side, as usual.  All three headed for Manhattan, grim determination etched onto their faces.  Seema clips the shot and files it; this is one for the ages.  Might even be worth some free baklava in the caf, down the road?  

She pauses again at the sight of two jets taxiing out of the hangar, headed for the runway.  Not QuinJets – no, these were designed for a different payload.    

 _Bombers._  

One of the pilots would be dead within second, shot out of the sky by friendly fire.  The other is headed for Manhattan _._ _Who would follow an order to launch a nuclear missile against civilians?_    

Seema shudders as she recalls the cheers from the bridge, when Ironman took the nuke down (or up?).  All over the ship those shouts had been heard, what with the PA left open.  

She records the ID numbers of the two planes; Hill will want those in her fact sheet. 

“Holy shit.”   Manny’s voice sounds ...  strangled.   

“What?”   

“You gotta see this,” he gulps.  

The last time he’d sounded like that was after the Abidjan mess.  She gets up without another word and heads around to his side of the desk, picking her way carefully around the scraps of metal on the floor.  Good move, coming in in jeans and her Doc Martens today…  

He hits replay, and what she sees on his screen leaves her stunned. 

It had been all over S.H.I.E.L.D. of course, the notice that Agents Barton and McMullen, together with Dr. Selvig, had been taken over by Loki.  The _Wanted – Deadly Force Authorized_ notes had been on constant loop on every monitor on the ship for days, before ...

 _Before._  

And they’d both heard the Director’s announcement, the one that had made Hawkeye’s presence on the carrier so very clear:  “ _Barton’s headed for the detention level.  Does anyone copy_?”   

But still.  It’s one thing _knowing --_ it’s quite another to _see_ the arrow hiss into the console, with a precision and a finality that could only mean one thing.     

 _One man._    

Seema swallows.  The scene is a bit like a car crash; you can’t look away, need to see more … and then maybe it’s not really happening?   

“Do we have a link-up to the galleries?  That arrow … it seems to have come up from there.”   

Manny types a few commands into the computer; he is really good at this stuff, and not for the first time does it occur to Seema that his talents (like her own) are wasted in records. He should be in one of the command stations on the bridge, directing traffic, launching things, making things happen with the push of a button.     

A different angle comes up, the footage now showing the bulkheads above the bridge.  Both of them momentarily hold their breath when the pale face appears, the blue neon of the overhead lights glinting off the black of his bow and the metal tip of the arrow he is about to loosen.     

 _Agent Clint Barton_ , _leading the attack on the Helicarrier._ The Council will have a field day with this. 

Unbidden, Manuel freezes the image and zooms in on the face.   

“Oh.  My.  Goodness.  He looks like death warmed over.”  Seema finds her voice first.  “And look at those eyes!  They’re …”   

Manny closes his mouth with an audible _clack_ of his teeth.     

“That’s not Hawkeye.  That’s … a zombie.  Someone else, wearing his face.  Isn’t it?  _Isn’t it?_ ”    

He is practically imploring her now, to deny what’s so clearly on his screen.  Seema looks over at the back of her own computer.  

“No,” she says resolutely.  “No, that's not Hawkeye. You’re right.”     

She walks back to her station, calls up the image she’d saved, and turns the screen so Manny can see:  Three heroes, _three of the_ _Avengers,_ heading for the battle that would save New York.  

That would save the _world_. 

“ _This_ is Hawkeye.”    

They look at each other, silent once more.  Finally, Manny takes a deep breath. 

“The bridge was pretty much destroyed, wasn’t it?”     

His eyes fix on Seema’s with an odd glint.   She nods.   

“Pretty much.”   

What is he getting at?   

“And the camera feeds …?”   

 _Oh._    

“Are totally unreliable.  Right?”   

“Practically non-existent.”     

Manny grins at her now, pleased at the speed of her uptake.  His fingers start to dance across the console.  He lifts his hand dramatically, lips pursed, about to push the _delete_ button with a suitable sound effect.   

“Wait!”     

He looks up at Seema in confusion.   

“What now?”   

“The link between the Bridge and the Council.  That’s on a different feed, isn’t it?”   

Manny pulls his lip between his teeth.   

“It should be. _Could_ be.”   

It’s Seema’s turn to grin.   

“So the discussions between Director Fury and the Council, when they discussed nuking Manhattan …?”    

You have to hand it to Manny, he picks stuff up just as quickly as she does herself.     

“… Survived.  _Obviously._ And Deputy Director Hill will want to keep a detailed summary of _that_.”   

“ _And_ an extra copy of the tape.”   

“And an extra copy of the tape.  Or three.  _For the record_.”   

Maybe there’s more glory in S.H.I.E.L.D. fieldwork -- no doubt about that.  On a good day, you get to do useful things, for the Greater Good.  Perhaps even save the world, a little bit at a time.  Seema Singh is ready to be a part of that and so is Manny Gonzales, sunken-chested Lord of the Console.    

But there are days when just being a records clerk isn’t a bad thing at all.


	13. Big Game 2 -- The Itsy Bitsy Sequel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint Barton wonders just how the Black Widow got her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Be_compromised** had a Friday subvert-that-cliché ficathon, and **isthisrubble** said that she'd "love to see Nat afraid of spiders." Well. This just cried out for the eagerly awaited (hey, I can pretend, right?) sequel to [Big Game](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1132231).

 

"Clint."

Natasha's voice is ominous. Hell, it's practically quavering. Didn't Banner say he'd taken out the last of those raptors? Clint hopes vehemently that one of them didn't follow them home. (Can you hope vehemently? The day's been pretty crappy, so yeah, Clint does.)

"Yes?"

"Emmm ... can you kill that please?"

Shit.  _Really?_  Funny thing, he can't hear anything. Then again, in Jurassic Park those kids had no clue that  _two_  of those fucking things were in the cafeteria, and that was full of dishes and plastic chairs.

Clint grabs his bow, hoping he won't need one of his explosive arrows. (Stark will have to make him some new ones, like, yesterday.) As it is, Natasha's lucky he restocked his quiver with the regular ones as soon as they'd gotten home; that T-rex had cleaned him straight out. 

His bare feet allow him to sneak up to the living room without a sound. The sight that greets him is one he'd thought he'd never see: The Black Widow, rooted to the ground and white as a sheet, staring at ...  _nothing._  

He lowers his bow.

"Where is it?" he asks, not unreasonably, since her line of sight leads straight to the TV credenza and their shiny new 65", 3D beaut. Not much room for a raptor there, unless you turn the thing on.  "Whatever  _it_  is."

"It's right in front of my face," Natasha grinds out, between teeth clamped shut in what appears to be -- well, for lack of a better word, pure, unadulterated terror.

Now, there's that episode of Star Trek:Voyager, where the crew (except Janeway of course, she never gets affected by shit that everyone else succumbs to) all freeze up because of some vision-thingy that only they can see. Given the way their afternoon had gone, Clint is prepared to give Natasha the benefit of the doubt, and advances cautiously.

And then he sees it, in the light of the late afternoon sun that streams in through the window: The slightest silvery thread, suspended from the ceiling, quivering a little with Natasha's breath. And at the bottom of the thread, dangling at eye height -- a teeny little spider, minding its own business.

"You're kidding me, right?" he blurts out, realizing as the words leave his mouth that he might as well be writing his own death warrant. "That's a spider."

"I know what it is, Barton. Kill it.  _Now._ "

"But ..." Clint, it may be hard to believe, actually has real-life issues around killing things that don't really need to be dead. "You've been complaining about the mosquitoes. This thing ..."

"Just do it!"

Her tone brooks no argument -- it's one of those  _What the Lady wants, the Lady gets_  moments. Clint lifts his bow in a fluid motion and lets fly; of course, the spider isn't quite capable of stopping the arrow.  It lands in the curtains, bounces off the armour-plate windows and dangles in the fabric.

"Did you get it?"

Coming from the woman who just a couple of hours ago relied on him to drive three successive arrows into the eye of a moving T Rex, that's a bit rich, but in view of her evident distress Clint decides not to take offence. He strides over to the curtain and pulls the arrow out for a spot of forensic analysis.  The tip has a couple of tiny legs stuck to it, and there's a little splotch of ... something in the fabric, around the hole.

"Looks like. I s'pose you want me to sweep up the string, too, or can that wait for Dum-E when he comes to do the cleaning tomorrow?"

"Please." 

The voice is small, and almost melts his heart. How, exactly, did the Black Widow get her name? Hawkeye sure as hell didn't get his taking a broom to the ceiling, but maybe Clint Barton can do that for his partner. On one condition.

"Pizza tonight. And none of that vegetarian shit. Double ham, double pepperoni."

Natasha revives a little. 

"Thin crust."

"Fine.  _And_  I get to pick the movie."

Natasha sighs, but the Barton family tree contains a long line of snake oil salesmen, and he knows when he's got a live one. Sure enough, she nods and he gets the broom.

A few hours later, well-fed and suitably mellow (he'd graciously let her pick the wine), Clint zaps through Netflix, a much calmer Natasha curled contentedly in his lap. He's still on the A's when he sees something with a slightly pretentious-sounding title, but it's marked  _Horror!_  and so by definition worth a shot.

"Hey, Nat.  You ever hear of something called  _Arachnophobia_?"

 


	14. The Petard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha trolls Tony. Clint provides the wet blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Morringhangw** 's prompt at **be_compromised** was " _Fake!Married. GO!_ " So I went.
> 
> PS: Any links to my other fluff piece, [Good Morning, New York](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2233416), are _purely coincidental_. (Yeah, right.)

 

"So, when you guys do that undercover spy thing -- do you ever have to, like, _pretend you're married_?"  
  
Natasha rolls her eyes.  
  
"Why is our work of such interest to you, Stark? Especially outside your regular consulting hours?"  
  
Tony isn't in the least defensive.  
  
"I'm just asking because of those rings. They just kind of appeared. Can't blame a guy for noticing."  
  
Natasha sighs, and makes a face as if he'd just pulled out one of her wisdom teeth by hand.  
  
"Fine. Since you seem to care so much -- yes, the rings are real. Clint and I got hitched yesterday. I'll scan and e-mail you the papers, if you'd like to see them."  
  
There aren't many people on this planet who have seen Tony Stark speechless. In fact, there's only one -- Pepper Potts. So when he stares at Natasha, his mouth open, the number has effectively doubled.

Satisfied that her work here is done, Natasha turns on her heel and heads upstairs to join Clint, who is putting the final gloss on his mission prep. She is still grinning when she walks into the JARVIS-proof room in her quarters that they use as an office.  
  
"Hey, guess what! I just made Stark believe that those rings were real. Nosy sonofabitch. Like I would disclose mission details to him, just because he wants to know."  
  
Something in Clint's face is off. For starters, he doesn't seem to be as amused by the Tony incident as she had thought he would be.  
  
"What? Something the matter?"  
  
He stops staring at his smartphone screen and looks up.  It's not a good look.  
  
"Houston, we have a problem."  
  
"We do?"   
  
Clint puts down the phone, leans back in his chair and runs both hands across his face.  
  
"Yes, we do. Just had a note from Hill. You know that guy, the one who did the fake wedding?"  
  
Natasha frowns.   
  
"What?  Someone shoot him and we have to go somewhere and be witnesses? Or did he rat us out to Hydra?"  
  
"Worse."  
  
Clint gets up and heads over to the liquor cabinet. He comes back with two glasses and a half-empty bottle of Armagnac, and pours two sizeable portions.   
  
"He was actually licensed to perform weddings."  
  
He raises his glass.  
  
"Have a drink, Mrs. Barton."

 

 

 


	15. Black Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint needs a cat. Natasha doesn't have one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fluffy little ficlet (flufflet?) was written for the "All Things Fall" gab fest on **be_compromised** and sort of fits into the Fraction/Aja Hawkguy and Edmondson/Noto Black Widow 'verse (illustration by Phil Noto).

"Can I borrow your cat next Wednesday?"  
  
Natasha is instantly suspicious. And … protective. No need to mention either, though.  
  
"Liho is  _not_  my cat.”  
  
Clint snorts.  
  
"Yeah, and Lucky is not my dog. They’re just random animals we hang around with, feed and water twice a day, and let sleep in the bed when one of us is on mission, and the other one sleeps over in case the poor neglected animal needs a warm spot."  
  
” _Liho sleeps with you?_ " Natasha doesn’t quite manage to edit the indignation from her voice.  
  
Clint grins triumphantly.  
  
"Yep. When you were in Krakow last month. Purred, too."  
  
Natasha casts a baleful eye at  ~~her~~   _the_  cat.  _Traitor._  
  
"What did you feed her?"  
  
"Leftover sushi, from that reception at the Japanese consulate Fury made me go to, to play  _spot the yakuza_. She’s particularly partial to tuna. Not that you’d care, since she isn’t your cat.”  
  
Natasha decides to let it go. For now.  
  
"So why do you want to borrow her, exactly?"  
  
Clint hesitates for a second, as if he’s trying to frame an argument diplomatically, rather than barging straight to the point as usual.  
  
"Emm…."  
  
Natasha goes into mental fast-forward to spare him the trouble of thinking too hard.

Wednesday. Black cat.  _Hallowe’en._  
  
"Are you planning to dress up as a witch for Maria’s party?"  
  
Clint gives her that  _oh, puh-leeease_  look he does better than anyone (except maybe Pepper Potts).  
  
"Course not.  I’m going as Fury.  Stole … I mean  _found_  his favourite eye patch the other day in his office. No, this is for  _before_  the party. Simone won’t let the boys go trick-or-treating this year, not with some of those track suit dudes still being undead. So I thought …  You know.”

He sounds almost embarrassed now, and spills out the last sentence really fast.

"So I thought I’d decorate the roof a bit.  You know."  
  
Natasha considers her partner for a moment.  _Kids._ It’s a good thing his targets don’t know about this cold-blooded killer’s Achilles heel.  
  
"And no doubt you’re going to be a mummy, with those bandaids?"  
  
He shrugs, and winces a little at the effort.   
  
"I was thinking zombie. Still on those fucking painkillers."  
  
The urge to ruffle his hair is getting close to irresistible. And that’s not the only thing that’s getting irresistible — he must have copied that puppy dog look from Lucky. She sighs.  
  
"Fine.  I’ll make you a deal."  
  
Clint’s face is a roadmap, leading from  _mistrustful_  to  _hopeful_ , and back again.  
  
"Yeah?  Like what?"  
  
"I get to bring spiders."

  


  



	16. Five Times Natasha Romanoff Ignored Clint Barton (And One Time She Didn't)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff break from all that Marvel Bang angst! A handful of drabbles, written for the first six of my Halloween "trick-or-treaters" on LJ. (Okay, so I'm behind -- sue RL.) Here's to you, ShenShen77, CloudAtlas, andibeth82, TheLadyMore, and Crazy4Orcas. Pass the candy!

_One: Rabat_

 

She is walking down one of those narrow, winding streets in the Medina when she becomes aware of a presence. She can’t see his face, but judging by the way he moves, he’s lithe and not particularly tall; not one of those steroid-and-PCP-soaked killing machines the Red Room has been sending after her.  _Good._  

Natasha dives into the crowded bazaar, immediately aware of the hesitation in his step.  American or European, then – they have that … _thing_ about innocent bystanders.  He won’t shoot here.

She smiles and drives the knife into her mark’s neck, before melting back into the crowd.

 

…..

 

_Two: Tbilisi_

 

The Red Room has lost her trail, it seems; she is finally free to pursue her own goals.  Then why does every new contract make her feel emptier than the last? Maybe a beer will rinse out the sour taste in her mouth. 

There’s a man at the bar in MacLaren’s Irish Pub -- expat, not Georgian. Dirty-blond hair, handsome, interested -- but there’s no time for _that_ kind of forgetting. She withdraws into a dark corner. 

When he stares at her a day later, his bow drawn taut, she wonders briefly whether he would have killed her in bed.

 

…..

 

_Three: Tirana_

 

“You’re supposed to call for back-up when you need help, Romanoff.”

“I would have.  But I didn’t.  Not yours, anyway, Barton.”

“And when your teammate asks if you’re okay, you’re supposed to respond.  Even just to tell me to fuck off.”

“I was busy.  What does it matter, anyway?  You were _supposed_ _to kill me_ , remember?  The Council will be happy.” 

“That was _then_. And they expected _me_ to do it, _not_ the Albanian mafia.  Let me see that. Those guys were fucking _filthy_.” 

“I’ll pour some raki on it.”

“It needs stitches.” 

Maybe.  But …

_Nobody touches her head._

 

…..

 

_Four: Budapest_

 

“I _told_ you not to come back for me.”

“We’re partners, Clint.”

“You could have been killed." 

“But I wasn’t, was I?  Besides, wasn’t it you who told me we’re supposed to call for back-up?”

“That’s … different.”

“Sure.  When it’s the girl that’s in trouble.”

“That’s not what I said.  Don’t twist my … _ouch._ ”

“Just shut up and lean on me. Pretend you’re drunk. Coulson’s meeting us at the Oktogon in ten.” 

“No medics though, ‘kay?  Sitwell’s got a hundred bucks riding on who gets shot next and …” 

“You’re kidding, right?  _Three bullets_ , Clint! I’ll pay him myself.”

 

…..

 

_Five: London_

 

The mission had been an unqualified success; even Hill had texted a “Congrats!”  All things considered, an evening at the Lamb and Flag seems like a reasonable thing to do. 

Four pints in, and Clint is mellower than she’s seen him in months.  

“I always thought you preferred vodka, Romanoff.” 

She rolls her eyes.

“I live to subvert clichés.” 

The bar is crowded and they’re already close, but he moves even closer. 

“Anything else you feel like subverting tonight, Tash?” 

She shivers involuntarily, but recovers quickly.

“If you expect me to do your paperwork again, you’re drunker than I thought.”

 

….

 

_\+ One: Venice_

Swinging across the Canale Grande on one of Clint’s grappling arrows is bad enough.  Doing so holding on to him is … disconcerting.

A canned _O Sole Mio_ wafts across the water as they land in an empty courtyard, her body pressed to the length of his.  The smell of leather, sweat and cordite might as well be distilled pheromone.

She leans in and … 

... he groans -- not in pleasure. 

“ _What?”_  

“Quiver …”

Natasha rolls off, cheeks burning with mortification.  But Clint just shucks his quiver and flips over, pinning her with his arms. 

“So.  Where were we?” 

_Here._

 


	17. Roses Are Red, Widows Are Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Valentine's Day and Natasha indulges Clint's male instincts, just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the **be_compromised** Valentine's Day Promptathon, for a prompt from **CloudAtlas** : _“Valentine’s Day is the only day Natasha lets Clint defend her in non-life-or-death situations. Valentine's Day normally ends with Clint getting into a fight.”_ Maybe not quite on target, but I hope it will do!

 

 

“It’s a dive, Clint.”

“Yeah? So?  It’s got the best _yakitori_ in Kyoto. You know what they say about Asian food – the more the place looks like a bus stop, the better the food.”

Natasha sighs.  Who are those ever-convenient ‘ _they’_ people keep citing?But he’s not wrong, and the smells coming from the little hole-in-the-wall are nothing short of mouthwatering.  And as for eateries in which to spend some post-mission chow time, they’ve done a lot worse. 

In fact, the restaurant is typical for the grittier parts of the Gion district: brightly lit, non-descript, utterly charmless. The view from the street extends right into the kitchen, where plastic vats and jugs with mystery ingredients line the wall. It looks reasonably clean, but Natasha has long since learned that it’s the things you can’t see in a kitchen that will get you in the end. 

Not that she’s given a choice in the matter.  Her starving partner is already holding the door open for her, impatience disguised only very thinly as courtesy.  A group of satisfied looking customers file out as she goes in, taking advantage of his gesture.  The momentary traffic jam means they’ll have the place to themselves, which is both rare and nice. 

Behind the open counter, wedged into the tiny kitchen, a sumo-sized cook in a white bandanna wields an enormous blade in a blur of motion.  His moves are being watched worshipfully by a dishwashing assistant, who – in the finest Japanese tradition -- is probably in the tenth year of his apprenticeship with the master.  Because that much is clear:  That man is an artist.  Natasha can do many things with a knife, but cutting chicken into paper-thin slivers without watching her fingers is not among them.  Him? He does it with a fluidity and an understated ease that speak of years of practice. 

  

 

She climbs on the barstool without taking her eyes off the flashing silver.

The cook looks up, his eyes and nostrils widening a little as he takes in her red hair. Young girls in Japan dye theirs in all sorts of colours from pink to turquoise, she has noticed, but her natural red still turns heads.  

“You,” he says, pointing at her with a stubby finger and a smile that could definitely use some dental work.  “Byootiful. American, no?  English?” 

Natasha ignores the overture, and orders a bowl of ramen with chicken, in her best Yokohama-infused Japanese.  Let Clint go for the yakitori; she needs soup to combat the creeping chill outside.

The man’s eyebrows rise almost into his bandanna, but when Clint takes the seat beside her – his temporary career as a doorman over -- he becomes more interested in making money than comments.  Clint shoots him a quick glower before ordering in quite passable Japanese, his voice a touch sharper than usual.   

Natasha is torn between amusement and exasperation.  Clint has absolutely no issues when she goes after a mark with her feminine wiles blazing, but off-duty, his reaction when someone comes on to his partner can be downright visceral.  Although it’s not a jealous Neanderthal routine -- he just seems hell-bent on ensuring that she doesn’t have to deal with male attention in her spare time, too.

Still. It’s not like she needs Clint Barton’s help to maintain her personal space, and _Great Protector_ is not a role she wants him get too comfortable with.  (Those bullets he’d taken for her in Barcelona had been quite enough of that, thank you.)

Time to nip this in the bud.

“Feeling a bit territorial tonight, are we, Hawk?” 

Clint eyes her from the side, trying to assess whether she is joking or not. The man is not entirely a fool. 

“Nah. Just making a point.” 

“And what point would that be, exactly?”  

Not only has he dug himself in deep, but she’s just handed him a shovel. Natasha takes a delicate sip from the cup of green tea that has appeared before her courtesy of the cook’s assistant, and watches him squirm.  

“Ummm…”

Lucky for Clint, he is spared the need to come up with a response.  The door opens with a blast of chilly February air and a young girl walks in, carrying a bunch of roses.  She heads straight for Clint -- must have seen them sitting there through the brightly lit window, customers ready to be plucked: Two Western tourists, male and female, on a Valentine’s date.  A homing beacon for floral capitalism. 

“Nice rose?” the girl asks brightly in Japanese, and then again in English, for good measure, waving her bunch under Clint’s nose.  “Smell good.  Valentine gift for the lady?” 

Natasha is appalled. Of all the bits of American culture to have metastasized into this ancient city of geishas, temples and cherry blossoms (in season), this is not the one she would have looked for.  Nor would she have expected her partner to pounce on the distraction quite so readily.  In return for a folded bill he gets a single rose, complete with plastic sleeve.

“My Lady,” he says, handing the thing over with as much of a flourish as possible while perched on a rickety barstool, “pray forgive my presumption, and my mistaken belief that your virtue requires protecting.”

Bobbi is right.  When Clint does become articulate, you never know what might come out. 

“Did Happy make you watch Downton Abbey again?” 

He drops the rose in front of her, on the counter.  Surprisingly, it actually looks quite decent, and even has a water clip at the bottom. 

“No comment. But as red-blooded American male, I do know what to do with a pissed off woman and a rose,” he drawls in response. “Happy VD, darlin’.”

And he’d been doing so well.   

“Oh, you shouldn’t have.  Now I feel bad that I didn’t get you anything,” she purrs.  

“That’s okay,” he allows with an earnest nod.  “You can buy me some chocolates later.  The hotel shop is open twenty-four seven.” 

“That’ll be the day.  You know I don’t do Valentine’s.” 

And she doesn’t; she really doesn’t.  Valentine’s Day is a conspiracy between greeting card producers, florists and the chocolate industry, preying on the sentimental and the desperate. The best thing you can say for it that red praline boxes will be on sale for weeks after. 

Clint, on the other hand, is a fan – of certain aspects, at least. He gives her a suggestive look from under hooded lids. 

“Well, there are other things we could do when we get back to the hotel. Things that are traditional to do on the day, but that are sufficiently universal so you can pretend you want them for purely selfish reasons.” 

Lucky for Clint, their food gets plonked down on the counter and gives him something else to put in his mouth beside his feet.  He dives in quickly, chopsticks clicking. 

Turns out he was right; those plastic vats and magic blades do in fact produce something that transcends the Formica countertops and bare neon fixtures. For a few minutes, they eat in companionable silence, making only those little noises that come out when food crosses the threshold from nourishment into pleasure, and exchanging the occasional appreciative glance.  

There is a sudden cool breeze as the door slides open and four young men walk in. No, not walk – _swagger._   Dressed all in black leather, with slicked back hair, they exude a finely honed sense of entitlement.  The predatory look in their eyes instantly puts Natasha on edge. 

 _Yakuza._ Or wannabes, looking to prove themselves worthy of membership in one of the gangs.  Judging by their age and lack of visible tattoos they’re at the aspirational _basic thug_ stage, with a long way to go before they can graduate to drug smuggling. (They don’t look smart enough to reach that Holy Grail of organized crime, international finance.) 

The cook and his assistant have stiffened noticeably, before bowing and schooling their features into ingratiating smiles.  A regular shakedown, then.  Figures. 

Clint, too, has noticed the sudden change in the atmosphere.  His posture has undergone a subtle shift, and the grip on his chopsticks has changed. 

The four men remain standing together for a moment, almost as if to check whether their entrance has been accorded sufficient notice and respect. One of them (the leader?) makes a short comment, and they fan out along the counter, flanking Clint and Natasha two aside. 

Judging by the way her two are leering at Natasha, and the others are eying Clint with a mixture of challenge and contempt, it’s obvious they’ve decided to have a little gratuitous fun with the _gaijin_. 

So much for a nice, quiet post-mission evening out. 

“Hello Lady,” one of them says, leaning close to Natasha, pushing out his rather thin and unimpressive hips and demonstrating his ignorance of dental hygiene all at the same time.  “Want to fuck?” 

The other two, meanwhile, are crowding Clint, oblivious to those weaponized chopsticks. Subtlety – not to mention threat assessment -- is obviously not their strong suit. 

“Oh, puh-lease,” Natasha says in her best bored Valley Girl tone, giving his equipment the briefest of contemptuous glances, and punctuating her reply with a snort. “I can’t stand shrimp.” 

While her would-be assailant is trying to process just how he has been insulted, something occurs to her.  Something that should resolve a whole host of male ego issues all at once, plus be fun to watch. 

“Hey, Clint,” she calls out, talking right past her wannabe sex god.  “Remember that ‘virtue’ you wanted to protect? Go for it.  They’re all yours.” 

What follows is a blur of motion, not unlike the cook’s performance with his knife. The first of the quasi- _yakuza_ is down for the count before Clint has even gotten off his bar stool, thanks to a short rap to the larynx with the heel of a chopstick-reinforced hand.  Number Two goes down with a cracked kneecap, his howl of pain shortened to a gurgle by a quick chop of Clint’s hand, after he hops off the chair. 

Natasha makes a small contribution to the fight by tripping up the guy who tries to get around her to come to his comrades’ aid; she hopes Clint won’t notice, or mind. She resists the temptation to ram her ramen bowl into the man’s face, though -- waste of good noodles, that would be. 

A nicely executed turn from Clint to avoid a poorly executed karate chop to the face (red belt at best), a well-placed kick, and Elvis The Pelvis won’t be tempted to strut for a few weeks.  Clint neatly dispatches the stumbler with a hard knock to the back of his head, kicks him in the chin as he goes down, and steps aside to watch him fly gracelessly into the wall, head first. 

Natasha picks up her ramen bowl, takes a sip of the delicious liquid and looks at the heap of bodies at her feet.  Getting off that stool gracefully will be a challenge. 

“Can you throw them out for me, too?” she says.  “You know what they say – you kill it, you clean it.” 

Clint is barely breathing faster.  

“Who’s _they?_ ” he frowns. “And what do _they_ ever get right?  Besides, they’re hardly dead.  Way too much paperwork.” 

“We will clean up,” the cook – whom Natasha had almost forgotten about – chimes in from where he’d ducked behind the counter.  He motions his assistant and heads to the flip-up portion of the counter. “They come here many times, take money. We don’t like.”

Clint seems to be about to say _thanks_ , but then something occurs to him. 

“Hey, man – I hope they won’t give you any more trouble now, after this?” 

The cook has already hooked his enormous hands into a pair of armpits, and started dragging a limp body towards the back door. 

“They not come back,” he huffs, with a matter-of-fact shake of his head. “Much loss of face. We put by garbage. Maybe _in_ garbage.  Then call police.”

Then his face splits into a wide, conspiratorial grin.  He obviously appreciates fellow artists, even if they operate in a different field.  He even switches to Japanese.

“I suggest you finish your dinner quickly and leave before the police get here.  No need for ninja to do paperwork.  Also, dinner is free _._ ” 

They do finish quickly, although Clint does take the time to change chopsticks. The cook holds the door open for them as they leave, with many bows and _arigato_ s, before heading back in, presumably to call the police and chop some more chicken for the next wave of customers. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”  Natasha hooks her arm into Clint’s on the way back to the hotel, via the beautiful _shimbashi_.  “Did you enjoy that, honey?” 

Clint nods, and turns to her with the kind of grin that would drop lesser women to their knees. 

“Better than the finest chocolate.  Thank you.”

She brings her mouth close to his ear, and drops her voice to a whisper.

"Any other male instincts you feel like indulging tonight?' 

He twirls the almost-forgotten rose in his hand, in fine disregard of its thorns, and breathes in its sweet scent.

“Well, I  _might_ have an idea for those petals.”

 

 


	18. Toast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night things change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A " **Towerparty** " speed challenge flashfic, written to **geckoholic** ’s prompt “we live or die together.”

 

 

“We live or die together.”  
   
Thor waves his glass in salute over the sea of cartons, beer bottles, wine glasses and bits of dropped broccoli – his huge hands still can’t manage chopsticks -- that litter the coffee table in the common room.  
   
Clint’s hand pauses en route to his mouth, a piece of Szechuan chicken suspended in midair.  
   
“That’s a seriously sick toast,” he mumbles around a piece of chicken that has already found its way to his mouth.  Life in the circus and various foster homes has taught him to eat fast, before someone can take the food away.  “Do we at least get to pick?”  
   
Thor, unfazed by the challenge, lets out a spectacular belch.  
   
“It is a saying among the glorious warriors of Asgard, friend Archer,” he says and reaches into a box of rice.  He kneads the kernels into a medium-sized ball with his fingers and stuffs it into his mouth.  “It signifies our devotion to the brotherhood of the battle.  And you  _are_  my brothers, without any doubt.”  
   
Natasha lets out a snort and rolls her eyes at Maria, but says nothing.  
   
“I don’t think Thor meant any offence,” Steve tries to whisper, but fails.  “I think he was paying you and Maria a compliment, in an Asgardian way, by considering you one of his …”  
   
“Bullshit.”  It’s amazing how un-bureaucratic Maria Hill can get when she has two or three beers in her.  “Being lumped in with you testosterone-sodden lot is  _not_  a compliment, let’s make that perfectly clear.”  
   
“Children, children,” Tony sets his beer down with more force than strictly required, although this is probably more the result of reduced motor control, than any desire for rhetorical emphasis.  “Let’s not spoil the moment.  Cracking a HYDRA base in under thirty minutes has to be worth a little un-fractious celebration.  The future is ours, my friends!”  
   
Bruce hasn’t said a thing, but that’s not too surprising given that he’s been shovelling spring rolls (vegetarian) into his mouth at a rate of two a minute.  It never fails to amaze Natasha just how much food the good doctor can absorb -- just how many calories does a transformation burn?   
   
Over by the bar, Sam and Rhodey have left the discussion in Stark’s living room in favour of his single malt collection.  
   
“Worth leaving the military for?”  Sam opines as he sniffs a twenty-three-year-old Balvenie.  
   
“What – the Scotch or the HYDRA thing?”    
   
Colonel Rhodes, as far as Natasha can tell, is being deliberately obtuse.  Sam isn’t having any of it.  
   
“All of it,” he says, and swishes the liquid gold around in his mouth, allowing the peat to waft up his palate before swallowing.  Or that’s what it looks like to the Black Widow, and so she wanders over to help herself and repeat the experience.  
   
“And by  _all of it_  you mean this walking collection of Daddy and abandonment issues, and the kind of shit we get into?” she asks Sam.  He nods enthusiastically.    
   
“I'm lovin' this,” he says, and means it.  
   
Natasha looks over at Clint, who has unwrapped a clean pair of chopsticks and has started twirling one of them, in and around and through his long fingers.   _Practice,_  she knows.  His skills don’t come from a bottle, a ray or an alien sun; even when he plays, he doesn’t – not ever, not really.  
   
Someone makes a comment about Thor’s hammer, and before you know it, Steve and Tony (with reinforcement from Rhodey) are trying to out-macho each other with the thing.  To no avail, of course, but Pepper’s coffee table may never be the same again.  Natasha and Maria exchange an exasperated look.  
   
Natasha takes a sip of Scotch.  The liquid heat has just started gliding down her throat when the walls explode.  
   
_We live or die together._  
   
Days later, with the world in ashes and drones dripping from the sky like the tears of a metal god, Natasha wonders by what process some words are lost forever, while others become truth.

 


	19. Openings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint asks Natasha for dating advice. She has nothing, until she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At one point, **igrockspock** left a bunch of prompts on her journal, one of which was _Clint asking Natasha for dating advice even though she isn't exactly the right person_. I couldn’t find where she left it (or the exact wording), but it sounded like fun so I’m posting it here. (It was probably supposed to be headed elsewhere, but I chose the ship travelling down De Nile.) Here Be Fluff.

“Can you tell me,” Clint says, carefully testing the tip of his arrow with that of his finger, and licking off the resulting drop of blood before continuing, “just exactly _how_ girls like a guy to tell them he’s interested?”

Natasha looks up from her paper, and nudges his leg with her foot.  It’s not quite a kick, but it’s not gentle, either, and he utters a _hey!_ in vague protest. 

“Girls?  Surely you mean women, Barton.”

He moves back on the couch a bit to prevent a repeat of the assault.

“As a term of art, or a political distinction?  To clarify, I meant _female of datable age_. Preferably carbon-based and humanoid.”

Natasha thinks that maybe she deserved that, because honestly, her answer had just been stalling. It’s just that the question came … out of the blue.  Who is it her partner wants to date?  

Well, maybe she can atone for her kneejerk reaction with a spot of truthfulness.

“Honestly?  I wouldn’t know.” 

Clint sets down the arrow and sharpening tool he’s been working with and turns his laser eyes on her. 

“You’re kidding, yes? You’re the honey trap for the ages, and you’re telling me you don’t know how women like to be asked out?” 

Something in that question stings more than he probably intended it to, and the answer comes out just as pointed and sharp as Clint’s arrowhead.

“When I’m doing the _honey trap_ thing, as you so originally put it, it doesn’t matter _what_ they say. It’s my job to smile and say yes. And for the record, I don’t _like_ any of it.”

Clint has the good grace to look apologetic, and backpedals furiously. 

“Okay.  Fair enough.  So let’s approach it from the other direction then.  Help me eliminate stuff that really won’t work.  Come-ons that were total eye-rollers, or that made you really want to kill the guy. Hypothetically speaking. Or not.” 

She frowns. 

“Why do you want to know? Got your eyes on someone?”

He looks at his fingernails. 

“That obvious, huh.” 

There’s a little twinge in her gut, but – well, good for him.  (It is, isn’t it?) 

“Yep.  That obvious.”

He clears his throat, gets up and wanders over to the coffee machine, lifts up the pot, sniffs it, wrinkles his nose and takes a sip.

“Ugh,” he says. “That’s disgusting. You want some fresh?” 

Natasha puts down her paper. 

“Nice try at changing the topic, Barton,” she says.  “So who is it?” 

She can’t help but scroll down the list of potential candidates in her mind.  Clint Barton regularly tops Category One in the S.H.I.E.L.D. _fuck, marry, kill_ list (with a decent showing in Three), and most of the women she knows wouldn’t require an invitation.  (“It’s the arms,” is the locker room consensus.  “And those abs. Lickable.”)  So who _hasn’t_ made lewd comments about Hawkeye?

“Not Maria Hill?” she asks incredulously.  “I’ll have you know she won’t settle for anyone less than Captain America, and he’s been dead for almost seventy years.”

Clint waves her off.

“Hill is sex on heels, but I draw the line at screwing the boss.”  He considers what he’s just said for a moment, and amends his statement. “I mean, I don’t mind being told what to do on occasion, but …” 

Natasha decides to let that pass, although a little voice urges her to file the information for future reference. (Why?  She files that question, too – under _Don’t Examine Too Closely._  )

Back to what matters.

“Well, who then?”

Clint shakes his head.

“Can we stop with the twenty questions and get back to the original one?  I need advice, not the Russian Inquisition.”

Natasha realizes she is out of excuses to fulfill her partner’s disturbingly bothersome request.

“Fine.  You want to know what turns women off?”

She starts ticking off unpleasant memories, one finger at a time.

“ _Hey, gorgeous, wanna fuck?_  probably works best with women who have had too much to drink, or expect to get paid. _A little birdie tells me you’re lonely_ might have worked in the forties, but these days, you just want to flip one back.”

Clint has the good grace to be annoyed on her behalf.

“Seriously?  People try that shit on _you_?” 

Natasha shrugs. It is what it is. His indignation on her behalf, for some reason, feels nice though.

“Those unibrowed thugs from the drug cartels are pretty basic, and Eastern Europeans can be surprisingly old-fashioned, even the mafia types.”

He wants originality? 

“Remember that oligarch in Minsk, the one who was so fat you had to use three arrows to put him down? He fancied himself a poet. _‘You are as hot as the flames in your hair_ ,’ he said, ‘ _and I want to burn_.’” 

Clint shudders.

“I’m really sorry I asked,” he says, and Natasha thinks he sounds sincere.

She considers him for a moment.

“So what’s _your_ usual approach?” she asks.  “You’re neither a virgin nor a monk, and even managed to be married once. You must have some kind of repertoire.”

Clint looks a bit miffed that she has successfully turned the tables, but he can’t really say no. He started this line of questioning, after all. 

“I dunno.” He’s squirming now, that much is obvious. “Ask if she wants to watch a movie. Have a drink, maybe something to eat. Talk about stuff. See where things go. Nothing special, really.”

Natasha frowns. Maybe it’s nothing special to Clint, but it’s actually her favourite way of spending downtime: watching a trashy movie from his couch, having a beer and some disgustingly greasy pizza, rehashing missions, snarking about each other’s bad habits...

“That should work,” she says firmly.

He gives her an odd look, and this time he doesn’t look away. 

“Hasn’t so far.”

_Hasn’t …_

Oh?

Now, Natasha probably wouldn’t be the Black Widow if she couldn’t change her assessment of a given situation on a dime, based on the discovery of a hitherto unrealized fact.  What she isn’t used to, though, is having one of those discoveries making her feel as if someone had just punched her in the gut.

Pretty obviously, they can _both_ use a new approach.

“Maybe you’ve just been trying the wrong kind of movie,” she says.  “Try something without zombies or chainsaws.”

Clint draws a sharp breath.

“Maybe I could?” he says slowly, his face inscrutable.  “What about beer, though?”

“Beer is fine,” she nods decisively.

It’s already becoming easier, she finds.

“And I hear that thin-crust pizza is practically an aphrodisiac.”


	20. The Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being at the top of your profession does not come cheap.

“Ten minutes to drop-off.” 

The voice of the pilot is cool and dispassionate, as is the look Clint exchanges with Natasha.

“Ready?” he asks, unnecessarily. 

“As I’ll ever be,” she smiles back.

Parachuting into ISIS-held territory is bound to be somewhat less than a picnic.  But finding Iraq’s best-known expert in Assyrian history before he can be tortured into revealing where he'd hidden what remains of the treasures of Nimrud? An extra level of tricky. The sale of those pieces, if found, would only prolong the barbaric reign of a cult Fury has described as a _putrid boil on the face of the century._   They won't take kindly to seeing their prize snatched out of their blood-stained hands.

He nods his approval; nothing more needs to be said.

Five minutes to the jump, Clint pulls out the picture.  He studies it carefully, his thumb stroking one slightly creased face after the other.

 _Cooper._ His soccer team has – surprise, surprise – turned into a real contender this year and made the top four; Clint had promised to be there for the semi-final.  Well, so much for that.

 _Lila._ And that wand he’d spent the afternoon making with Lila (“It has to have a star, Daddy! Please can it have a star at the top? A golden one?”) … Glinda would have to wield it without him.  No way they’ll make it back from the Middle East on time, even if they skip the debrief. 

Both kids had nodded their understanding.

“We know, Daddy. It’s your job, and it’s important.”

But Clint hadn’t missed the small look they’d exchanged, nor the way in which Laura had pulled back her shoulders when he’d delivered the news about the assignment.

 _Laura._  Their last phone call, she'd told him she could feel the baby move.  This one's earlier than the other two; a little keener.

“You've still got the same one?  I thought you were going to get an update this time.”

Natasha knows the picture, of course – she's seen him with it often enough, op after op as he performs his little ritual: reminding himself why he can’t afford to be careless.  Seeking silent absolution, in case being careful isn't enough.

“Didn't have time.”

“It’ll fall apart on you some day, you know.”

“Reckon.”

He puts the picture back in his pocket, carefully, so as not do any more damage to the edges, and reaches for his bow.


	21. Country Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment fic, written for the prompt "making moonshine" by **meatball42** over on **be_compromised**. Because I actually had a few minutes to write... (Fluff alert.)

 

Alcohol distillation: The one thing that Tony and Bruce, with all their doctorates and their science and their toys, can't ever seem to get right. 

Natasha wrinkles her nose, and spits the contents of her mouth into a plant, followed by the rest of the glass. The leaves start to droop almost instantly.

"Seriously, Stark? You expect people to drink that? I bet if I dipped my fingernails in that stuff the polish will come off."

"Oh, come on, Romanoff. You Russians drink vodka that can fuel a convoy of Sherman tanks."

Natasha shoots him a look somewhere between amusement and _where do I put that stiletto heel_. 

"There's a reason I left the place.  But if you really want to make something drinkable with that still of yours, why not ask Clint?"

She fiddles briefly with her smartphone, then turns back to Tony, who seems offended at the mere thought that there might be a being in existence who knows more about something than he does.

"Barton? What does _he_ know about biochemistry?"

His eyes shift of to the side as he chases a series of thoughts, makes connections, draws conclusions.  Natasha can practically hear the gears grinding.

"Oh, I get it: Hillbilly. Flyover hick. Country bumpkin."

"You called, Stark?"

Clint saunters into the lab with his usual swagger, winks at Natasha and heads straight for the still. With deft fingers, he makes a few adjustments -- including one that elicits a 'Hey! Don't touch that, it's fragile!' from Tony, which Clint aggressively ignores. 

He mutters something about _shitty ingredients_ and _respect for the classics_ , disappears into the kitchen and returns with a handful ears of corn and a bag of potatoes. (The benefits of a well-stocked kitchen and occupants with a penchant for carbs.)  

"Someone get me some Mason jars?"

He goes to work, whistling a jaunty John Denver tune.

That evening, Tony is silent for some ten minutes, for the first time in recorded memory.  Bruce flickers between green and pink a few times, until a look of peaceful bliss settles on his features and he starts to snore. Thor pronounces the brew to be "almost worthy of Asgard," while Cap happily sings the D-O-D-G-E-R-S song a few times, the lyrics becoming more indistinct with each rendition.

Later, up on the roof, Clint and Natasha clink glasses as the lights of the city twinkle beneath them. Somewhere to the East a police siren echoes in the urban canyons.

“To the last man and woman standing.” If Clint is trying to keep the smugness out of his voice, it’s a resounding failure.  “And to the Dread Pirate Roberts, who taught us the benefits of building up immunities.”

Natasha looks up at the scudding clouds, backlit by a silver light that breaks through intermittently.

“To the heartland,” she says, swishing the golden liquid around in her mouth. “And the moon. Long may it continue to shine.”


	22. Cats and Dogs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the be_compromised "all the things Friday" drabble meme, to kiss_me_cassie's prompt "Liho and/or Lucky".

**1\.  Lucky**  

“He’s got fleas, Clint.”

“So did you, once. Remember that op in Kinshasa? When I had to wash your hair with that …” 

Natasha quells him with one eyebrow. _(Almost.)_  

“Right. That was _lice_.” Clint scratches his head absently. “Point is, there’s a shampoo for that. Or Stark can design some kind of cluster ray that zaps them without making everything smell like a tar pit.” 

Clint’s eyes have a look in them that almost matches the mangy mutt’s. The dog’s left ear un-flops ; clearly, he has an antenna for human weakness. 

“Fine. But -- _your dog. Your bathroom_.”

 

 **2\.  Liho**  

“That cat-that-isn’t-yours is at it again.”

Clint sounds like he’s ready to string a bow, so Natasha looks up from her paper.

“At what? Can you be more specific?”

“Ridding the neighbourhood of vermin.”

Natasha unfolds her legs and lowers them over the edge of the couch, carefully placing her feet into a pair of waiting flip-flops (Lord knows when Clint’s floor last saw a mop), and pads to join him at the window. 

“What is it this time? A rat? Roaches? Lucky?” 

Clint points down with his chin. There’s a hiss, a yelp -- and a man, running. 

“Paparazzo.”

  

 **3\.  The Calm Before The Storm**  

Kate has no idea how this happened. She is, after all, a child of the new millennium -- smart and sophisticated, World’s Greatest Markswoman, and nobody’s fool. 

And yet … here she is, looking not just after Clint Barton’s idiosyncratic dog, but also after his lethal girlfriend’s bipolar, psychopathic cat.

Right now, Liho is rubbing up against the blissed-out mutt with a deep-throated purr, but Kate is convinced she’s doing it just to identify the best spot into which to sink her claws. Arterial spray is about to follow.

Man, Clint and Natasha sure are lucky to be in Budapest.


	23. When the Bough Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Clint always suspected that his hideout had its flaws." Farm family fluff, written as a Halloween treat for **CloudAtlas** , based on a first-line prompt.

 

“How did you get up there?”

The voice is small, and Clint has to squint before he spots its owner through the thick canopy of leaves.

_Shit._

“I levitated,” he says and, seeing the puzzled frown, adds, “I flew. How else would I get up here?”

“ _Daddy_.”

She giggles. Lila may only be three, but she already has a well-developed relationship with reality. Must get that from Laura, or from hanging out with Auntie Nat.

“Okay fine, sweetie, I climbed up here.”

Lila nods solemnly, accepting that answer as something she can live with. But then, she remembers just how sensational her find is in the first place.

“Coop! _Coopie!!”_ she shouts, delighted. “Guess what! I found …”

_Nonononono…._

“Shush, sweetheart. Don’t tell! It’s a secret!”

Lila clutches her bear to her chest. (Clint’s bear, actually, not that he’ll ever get that ancient scrap of fur back.)

“What’s a see-kwet, Daddy?”

Well, there are several ways of answering that one, Clint figures, as he swats at a wasp that seems to have taken a liking to his leg.

_When your place of employment gets hollowed out from within by Evil People._

_When your closest friends don’t have a clue who you really are, and what you get to go home to between missions._

“A secret? That’s when you can’t tell anyone something, for some reason.”

“Why?”

 _Damn._ Lila’s been having a case of the ‘whys’ for weeks now. It’s kinda cute, but stretching out this conversation any further is a sure-fire way to get caught.

“Because Daddy is hiding.”

“Who’re you hiding from, Dad?”

His son’s voice is as clear as a bell. Clint sighs.

Now both of his offspring are gathered around the tree, staring up at him. Coop looks like he’s been in with the chickens again, feathers sticking to his sneakers. (Never was a child more aptly named.)

“Who d’you think, wise guy?”

Cooper snorts, and bumps his sister on the arm. She squeals a token protest, but looks at him with that adoring expression, the one that means she expects her big brother to know the answer to _everything_.

“I bet he’s hiding from Mommy,” Laura’s highly intelligent progeny states his conclusion as an incontrovertible fact. “ _And_ from Auntie Nat.”

The crack of a twig announces the otherwise silent presence of a third person. Professional, knowing she doesn’t have to look where she’s stepping for a couple of days.

“You can come down now, Hawkeye,” his partner’s voice announces. “We’re done. But I _really_ think it’s time you fix that dishwasher.”

 


	24. Pokemon A Go Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In hindsight, it's probably a good thing that Peter Parker is a teenage nerd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the **be_compromised** 2017 Valentine's Day Mini-Promptathon, to **Sugarfey** 's prompt "The summer Clint discovered Pokémon Go." I know very little about Pokémon Go, but luckily I am closely related to a teenager who does and "poké-picked" this for me.

In hindsight, it's probably a good thing that Peter Parker is a teenage nerd.

Spiderman shouldn’t have been in the Common Room in the first place, not being of legal drinking age and there being rather a large amount of Scotch both present and in use. Not to mention that Wilson and Barnes are still pissed off at him over whatever he did to them at that airport. (What that is they won’t say, which is about the only thing they agree on, as far as Clint can tell.)

But Pepper, ever since she’s come back, has had that thing about ‘reconciliation’ and setting aside differences. So here the kid is, for better or worse, declaring to all and sundry who would listen -- which what with him being a kid is basically just Clint – that Avengers Tower is a PokéStop. 

“A what?” Clint says, being polite, and that’s pretty much the moment when everything starts to go downhill.

Parker starts monologuing about virtual reality, hatching eggs, gyms, and catching and battling aliens (like, where’s the fun in that?). Clint is about to tune the kid out when he says something like, “Plus, you get a ton of exercise so it’s actually good for you.”

That is of course the moment when Natasha, who’s been reading a magazine, looks up and straight at Clint and says, “Maybe you should try it? Sitting on your butt in that jail for six weeks didn’t do much for your muscle tone.”

So now it’s a couple of days, one pair of Nikes and 38 klicks through Manhattan later and here they are, by the United Nations building. Which, it turns out, is a PokéStop too, no surprise there - enough crazy in that place to hatch a thousand Zubats. 

Except there’s a rumour going around there’s a rare water type skulking in the neighbourhood, one that even Parker has never seen before. He claims is really, really special, although why it would pick the East River when it could have Battery Park and the Upper Bay isn’t quite clear to Clint. 

Anyway, Parker needs the thing to go up a trainer level and it’s Clint’s turn to give him an assist. They’ve already checked out the Farmer’s Market on 47th (no dice, but good apples) and the Raoul Wallenberg memorial; that bronze briefcase is empty. 

Clint is getting almost walked out by now but he has taken a shine to the kid, plus, _reconciliation_ , so he he’s all about giving it one last shot. 

Maybe the UN building will be good for picking up an egg for himself, too? It’s a pretty big place, and the US Embassy across the way is a gym. The walk back to the Tower should be long enough to hatch something, but then he is definitely done for the day. (Apart from maybe inviting Natasha to check out his newly re-invigorated muscle tone.) 

And sure enough, there it is! The damn water thing is currently weaving and bobbing past the covered entrance into the gardens. It’s heading for the gun-with-a-knot-in-it sculpture, the one that’s supposed to symbolize peace, kumbaya and the end of the world’s need for outfits like S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers. 

As if. If the UN allows the Ross’ of this world to keep churning out crap like the Sokovia Accords, Clint figures World Peace is gonna be a long time coming. 

“It’s behind the security barrier,” Parker says, disappointment heavy in his voice. “Too far for a ball toss. Guess we’re just out of luck.” 

The security dudes on the other side of the fence and around the big guard hut are looking pretty serious, not like in the olden days when people got hired based on what country they were from or who their cousin is. Ever since Baghdad, they’re six foot eight on average and equipped with real guns.

Today there are some extra bodies around, probably because the UN Secretary General and some other bigwig are about to dedicate a new sculpture. The usual horde of tourists is pressed up against the fence, most of them snapping pictures like crazy in the hope that the august personages will gain them a few extra ‘likes’ on Instagram, even if they don’t know how to spell Ban Ki-moon.

The uniforms are paying attention.

Clint is not deterred, nor does he share Parker’s assessment. 

“Just watch me,” he says. 

There is no way Clint Barton will let a bunch of politicians and guys in blue uniforms get in the way of catching a Blastoise for his friend Peter. He puts himself into position to throw a Pokéball at the thing – with Parker’s phone, of course, because he’s not a complete jerk. 

The guns come out as he makes the toss. 

Makes the toss -- and misses. 

_Hawkeye. Missing the target._

Clint looks at the sky, briefly – nope, not falling. Sun, still up there (glinting off the guards’ firearms, in fact). 

“What’s with that app?” he indignantly asks Parker, who’s standing beside him flexing his fingers like he’s about to throw some spider juice despite being in civvies. “There’s gotta be something _seriousl_ y wrong.”

“Hands up, real slow!” hollers one of the security guys, right in the middle of Clint’s musings. South African, by the sound of him; ex-Springbok, by his size.

Clint gives him precisely one-hundred-thousandth of a second of his attention, because however large these guys are, they don’t have jurisdiction to fire their guns onto New York streets. And Clint is well outside the UN perimeter. Okay, three feet out – but the law is a wonderful thing, innit? 

“Chill, dude,” he says dismissively. 

Obviously, he needs a comparison shot while the Blastoise is still within throwing distance. He reaches for his own phone to the sound of safeties being unlatched. 

Whoops. Maybe they changed the rules about that jurisdiction thing? 

The tourists scatter like roaches at the sight of all those semi-automatics, except for one guy who fiddles with his phone – doubtless hoping to get the Shot That Makes The News. 

“Oh, man,” huffs Parker and lets fly some spider-goo at the guards, right through the fence. Of course some of it gets stuck on the rails, but enough gets through to tie weapons and hands together. Useful stuff, that. 

While the uniforms curse and the Sec Gen and visiting Big Wig stand there looking alarmed, Clint fires another ball at the Blastoise, this time with his own phone. 

And misses again. 

This time, there’s no question that there is interference: the screen on Clint’s smartphone flickers ever-so-slightly, both before and after the toss. It seems to be coming from the right. 

He looks around for a possible source and there is the wannabe photographer – except he’s holding his phone not like someone about to take a Pulitzer prize shot, but a man ready to push a button. 

Now. Clint hasn’t done three tours in Afghanistan and Iraq without knowing how cellphones can be used to detonate unpleasant things. With a flick of his wrist he throws his phone, hard. To his relief, the old-fashioned kind of toss still works; the man yelps in pain, and the device falls out of his hand. 

“Parker, web him up!” he shouts -- unnecessarily as it turns out. That Parker kid is seriously on the ball, Clint is pleased to see. The webbing is pretty thorough, too, enough to make sure the guy can’t find other ways to detonate his primary. 

Ban Ki-moon stares right at him, scrunching up his face as if in deep thought, and slowly backs away from the sculpture. 

Clint grabs Parker by the shoulder, and points to the line of cabs on First. 

“C’mon, kid,” he says. “Saving the world is illegal these days, and you’re too young for jail. Plus, I’m done walking.” 

He snatches up his phone and tosses one more Pokéball over his shoulder at that fucking Blastoise, just because, and to check whether the universe is in harmony again.

Bullseye. (Phew.) 

According to the news that evening, cellphone guy had inside help. One of the guards, a disgruntled national of What-the-Fuckistan, had hidden a small bomb under the new sculpture, waiting until President What’s-His-Name-Ovitch would pull the cord. 

In a follow-up story it transpires that the UN Secretary General, for some reason, is convinced that his life has been saved by a couple of unnamed Avengers and is urging member states to have another look at the Sokovia Accords, maybe throw them out altogether. 

Natasha turns off the TV with a click of the zapper and looks at Clint affectionately. 

“Hey, “she says. “Good job there, Hawkeye. Now Tony and Steve may have one less thing to argue about.” 

Clint shrugs. 

“Anything’s possible,” he says. “If you have the balls.”

 

 

 

 


	25. Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve should never have looked at the comments section.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For **kiss_me_cassie** , who gave me the prompt "That was a perfect example of how not to do things," in the latest tumblr fic meme.

Steve really, really hates it when someone looks over his shoulder, especially while he’s trying to type on his iPad. Those stupid electronic keys weren’t exactly made for serum-enhanced fingers and he always feels a little clumsy and self-conscious – particularly when the someone is Tony Stark, whose own fingers can make any electronic device perform a Scott Joplin rag.

“Do you mind?” he snaps at Tony, to absolutely no effect. Instead of scatting, the man draws closer. Much closer. Steve can feel his breath on his neck, warm and damp and smelling slightly – no, a lot – of beer.

“Hey, assassin people,” Tony says right beside Steve’s ear, his voice pitched high in amusement. “Did you know that Captain America is contributing to the comment sections?”

“Do you mind?” Steve says again, this time with a proper don’t-fuck-with-me snarl. “Or have all notions of privacy and personal dignity gone out the window since I went under the ice?”

“Commenting on what?” Natasha wants to know, while Barton just utters a lazy but definitive, “Ee-yup.”

The two former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents peel themselves off their couch in unison and head over to Steve’s side of the room on silent feet. He is about to shush them off when he sees Barton unceremoniously shove Tony aside, a move that deserves to be rewarded with some momentary tolerance.

And so Steve says nothing when Barton drapes himself over the back of his armchair, while Natasha settles gracefully on the armrest and leans in. Her perfume is the same as the one she was wearing on the Lemurian Star and for a moment Steve flashes back to the night when his world had started to fall apart, except he hadn’t known it then. Not yet.

“Whoa,” Barton says as he digests the contents of the page Steve has been looking at. (Why do they call it a _page_ when you can go down it endlessly – shouldn’t that be a _scroll_?) Barton taps off the keyboards without asking so he can see the whole article, not just the comment window, and moves the cursor up. He whistles softly.

“That is some fucked up shit you’re lookin’ at, Cap.”

Steve nods, inexplicably comforted by the validation, however crudely delivered.

“These people are either Nazis, or nuts,” he replies. “The stories are bad enough, especially the ones by that Greek guy. But the comments people leave? My word.”

He shakes his head as he watches the text flit by under Barton’s calloused finger; for a former carnie, the man reads surprisingly fast.

“I suppose me and Bucky and the others, we fought a whole war so these jerks could keep the right to open their mouths, but I sure don’t have to like what comes out.”

“And so you comment back.” Barton nods approvingly and stops his scrolling. “Righteous use of force and all that - do your Cap thing and hit those suckers where it hurts. Makes perfect sense.”

If it makes sense, then why does Steve feel so mentally exhausted by the process? He tries to explain, for his own benefit as much as the others’.

“For some reason, though, no one on the Internet seems to actually want a rational discussion. They just … pile on with insults, as soon as I make a perfectly reasonable, fact-based point. By the way, does anyone know what’s a ‘libtard’, or a ‘cuck’?”

“Well, what do you expect?” Natasha sounds amused possibly at some joke that only she – and maybe Barton – understands. Someday Steve will figure out how they do that, this reading each other’s thoughts.

“Sorry to break it to you, Steve, but you are on the Breitbart site.”

“Breitbart?” Apparently, Stark was insufficiently offended by the Barton shove; he hasn’t left the common room, he’s just gone to pour himself a Scotch. He takes a deep swallow and shudders. “Abandon all rational thought, ye who enter there.”

Steve’s chair currently being occupied by three people leaning over one iPad, Stark steers to the couch opposite from it as if that had always been his destination. He plunks himself down and puts his feet on the coffee table, carefully placed in between the empty Chinese food containers and the beer steins.

“Seriously, Cap, piece of friendly advice? You need to avoid that kind of site if you want to stay sane. Don’t let yourself be baited. I mean, would you walk into one of Doctor von Doom’s toxic slime factories on purpose? Let me tell you, I wouldn’t.” He considers for a moment. “I’d send Thor.”

Tony probably has a point, if the angry churning in Steve’s gut is any indication. Not about sending for a Norse God to do the mucky jobs, of course, but about maybe better avoiding political aggravation altogether. Lord knows it’s bad enough waking up thinking you’ve won the war only to learn Hydra’s been there all along – and now, all these morons are crawling out of the woodwork, waving the Constitution just so they can burn it to ashes?

“So what do you suggest I do, Tony? Stay off the internet?”

“Works for me,” Barton shrugs. “All’s ever there is pictures of kittens and the criminally stupid, trying to tell people not to vaccinate their kids.”

He scrunches up his face, and looks over at Natasha for a second.

“Well, I suppose there’s porn. Say, Cap, you discover porn yet?”

Natasha is fixated on Stark, who has gone uncharacteristically quiet.

“Tony?” Her voice is soft, yet threatening. “Are you thinking again?”

Steve shakes his head.

“I can’t give up on the internet altogether. Still too much catching up to do. Wikipedia…”

He lets his voice peter out as Tony sets down his Scotch glass – a man who’s had an epiphany. Tony looks up at the ceiling, like Joan of Arc calling out to her voices.

“Friday?” he says, his speech a little slurred from all that beer and Scotch. “I need you to write me an algorithm. Something that separates sane from stupid. Filter out all the Nazi junk, so that our good Captain here can cruise the web without going bonkers. Can you do that?”

The melodious voice comes out of the ceiling somewhere, a fraction of a second later.

“As you wish, sir. Would you like the algorithm to be applicable only to Captain Rogers’ personal browsing patterns, or to be more generally available?”

Steve wants to say something to the effect that this isn’t necessary, that he’s a man and can take a little bullying on occasion, in fact needs it so he can feel useful when he whacks it down. Besides, the word ‘algorithm’ gives him the shivers a bit.

But Stark gets there first.

“I think we can save everyone a lot of hassle by limiting all that unnecessary friction between people. I say, just go for it, Friday. Whole hog.”

…..

At first there isn’t much change, but after a couple of weeks Steve notices that his Facebook page and Twitter are much more pleasant places to spend time on. His feeds seem mostly to show links to articles that are more interesting than annoying, with even the occasional science piece thrown in. He even finds himself agreeing with most of the posts, and when the occasional commenter says something incendiary or abysmally ignorant, enough people shout him down so Steve no longer feels compelled to.

It’s all working pretty well, actually; even Sam agrees, and he is even more cynical than Stark. In fact, Steve finds himself looking into the future with more confidence than he’s had since those helicarriers dropped into the Potomac.

Yes, things are going very well, until …

The team watches incredulously as the electoral district counter goes ever deeper in the red and PA, Wisconsin and Michigan get declared for Trump. Even Tony, who’s been raised at the teat of billionaires and can identify with the dollar signs in the candidate’s eyes, shakes his head in disgust.

“Are they fucking serious?”

Barton stares at the screen, where a handful of pundits are shouting over one another in horrified alarm.

“Wonder why nobody saw that coming?”

Natasha looks at her half-empty champagne glass, in which the bubbles have long since gone flat.

“Maybe because we stopped talking to people with different points of view? And stopped seeing them?” she says slowly. “If the Red Room taught me one thing, it’s that building walls around your own thoughts can make your mind seem like a comfortable place to be, but it can only make you blind.”

She looks at Tony.

“And as for that algorithm of yours, Stark? That was a perfect example of how not to do things.”


	26. State of the Union

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For each story, there are many sides. Well, to some stories, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on an anonymous prompt in the 2017 **be_compromised** promptathon.

"Barton, Romanoff? Your mission reports on the Rio op could not be more different. Care to explain?"

Coulson sounds weary as he pinches his nose. Clint looks at Natasha, Natasha looks at Clint. They both talk at once.

“Honestly? I couldn’t really see through the slime, sir.” “I think maybe the sand got in my eyes?”

Coulson takes a deep breath.

“So, which was it – sand or slime? Make up your minds, agents.”

Natasha looks at Clint, Clint looks at Natasha. He shrugs. _Your turn, babe_.

“What if it was both? Truth is a matter of perception,” she says, "and depends on where you're standing."

Coulson is not amused.

“That’s like saying protesters at a Nazi rally are the same as the Nazis.”

Clint stretches in his seat like a cat and leans forward.

“Now you know that’s bullshit, sir. We know what Nazis looks like, and they look the same from any direction. Swastikas, anyone? Dead giveaway. But aliens? Who knows what they make you see or feel like, once they mess with your brain. Hell, I know that one better than most.”

Natasha nods in agreement.

“And that guy with the orange spaghetti for hair? Definitely from outer space. No such skin colour on Earth - even a dyed-in-the-wool racist would tell you that.”

Coulson looks down at his papers and shuffles them around for a bit.

“Fine,” he says, sounding displeased. “Never thought either of you might still be vulnerable to mental manipulation. We'll file both reports under 'momentary lapse of clarity.' But now I suggest you both go and take a shower. That Russian vodka the alien poured over you stinks to high heaven.”


	27. Mr. Green, Mr. Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bubbles!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment fic in the **be_compromised** "all the things Friday" party.

Clint shakes his head in disbelief as the shimmering blue-red-purple spheres dance in the wind - followed by a jolly green giant who is batting at them with his sausage-like fingers, oblivious to the smashed storage units he leaves in his wake.  
  
“You’d think having fun would turn him back into Banner?” he says to Natasha over the comm. “No such luck, apparently.”  
  
“That would probably be because Hulk thinks that soap is corrosive,” she sighs, having snuck up beside him. “You ever try to get him to take a bath?”  
  
Clint looks at her for a moment before remembering to close his mouth.  
  
“You seriously try to make me believe you tried to get Banner into a bathtub? I mean, Stark was suggesting you two had a …  _thing_  the other day, but I thought he was just trying to get me to hit him in the head because his helmet was jammed.”  
  
“Did it work, oh Jealous One?” Her smile momentarily distracts him with a promise he fully intends to cash in on later. “I’d have loved to see  _that_.”  
  
“Yes, it did.  Don’t change the subject though,” he growls. “Banner. Bath tub?”  
  
“Not  _Banner_ , you idiot. Hulk.”  
  
Natasha sighs and moves to the right, helping Clint herd their erratic team mate in the direction of the parking lot where he can do less damage. Luckily, the wind is cooperating and the bubbles are wafting into the open space.  
  
“That’s an awful lot of armpit and crotch space to fight beside in Arizona in July, and not a lot of personal hygiene. And no, it absolutely couldn’t wait until he was re-Bannered. You had to be there, I suppose.” She wrinkles her nose and shudders delicately.  
  
Now safely moved onto the expansive, empty tarmac, Hulk winds up for a giant leap and pounces on an enormous bubble with two joined fists. It splatters into a thousand iridescent droplets that momentarily flicker in the sun before falling soundlessly on the ground; the remainder scatter with the force of the air and expire on their own.   
  
Hulk pauses on the suddenly empty ground, and snorts in anger. Or is it loss? He sits down heavily and sniffs his fingers.  
  
“Uh, oh,” says Clint. “Don’t do it, Kermit! You won’t like ….”  
  
Hulk licks his index finger, and a suddenly beatific expression settles on his face. He grunts, heads over to the former silo and the lake of spilled detergent, and starts lapping.   
  
Minutes later, the enormous form starts to shrink until there is nothing left but a shivering human in a pair of pants that look like they belong to a contestant on  _America’s Greatest Loser_.  
  
Banner spits and spits.  
  
“What the…” he says, and turns to Clint and Natasha with an aggrieved look.   
  
Natasha shrugs.  
  
“Looks like we found the magic bullet,” she says with a smirk. “Best tell everyone to start carrying a bottle of Mr. Clean or something.”  
  
She turns to Clint.  
  
“C'mon, Hawkeye - we’re done here. Let’s find out just how relaxing bubbles can be.”  
  



	28. The Colour Purple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some colours are just ... too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it’s _Clintasha Advent_ over on tumblr and today’s topic is “colours”. I usually just send in (self) recs for these, but today I felt a fluffy ficlet coming on, so I wrote it down while hubby snored softly on the couch. (It's been a long week for both of us.)

“ _Purple_?  Seriously?”

Natasha eyes her partner’s boxer shorts with a mixture of fascination and revulsion; the latter is rapidly winning out. She’d known that they'd have to spend the night in a safe house before the flight back - Chisinau is not on major travel routes - but shouldn’t the idea of a ‘safe house’ include protection against retinal burn?

“Where does one even find something like this?”

Clint turns around and gives her a look that borders on pride.  He waggles his hips, a move that does interesting things to parts of him she probably shouldn’t be looking at.

“You know that market in Tashkent?  That old babushka only wanted 300 Som for these, so I bought a dozen.  Finest Uzbek cotton, leftover from Soviet days.”

So not only is the colour of these things a crime against humanity, their very existence is at least partly responsible for the drying up of the Aral Sea.  Natasha sighs and pulls on the zipper of her tac suit; peeling it off is always a pain, especially when there’s dried blood to watch out for. 

“You pick a bed yet?”

Clint’s voice is a bit hoarse, and she can feel his eyes burning into her back. With their luck, the safe house has only one bedroom and no couch; of course this would be the day she’d opted for black lace under her suit.  Well, it can’t be helped; they’re both professionals, and this isn’t the first time they’ve had to sleep in the same room.  Clint will just have to get over it.

There  _are_  two beds.  But as it turns out, the choice is between sagging springs and a slab of granite. Both are inhabited; the sheets are practically crawling with bed bugs.

“I was thinking of taking the floor,” she says even as the idea strikes her.  “Pull down the curtains for bedding, and hope there are no rats.”

If there’s anything her years in the Red Room have taught her, it’s that sleeping on the floor is better than most alternatives.  Besides, the flowered carpet looks reasonably thick and may even have seen a vacuum sometime this year.  

Clint approves with a nod.

“I’m with you.  Those bugs look like they haven’t eaten since Bush was in the White House.  Wonder who shlepped them in.  My money’s on Ward; guy looks like he never showers.”

He’s unusually loquacious all of a sudden; what’s that all about?  She heads over to the enormous bay window, but he’s already there, using his greater height to open the lock on the curtain rod.  One quick snap of the wrist, and the bright-red velour comes flying down like a matador’s cape, the little hooks rattling a merry acocmpaniment.  Natasha takes the curtain out of his hand, shakes out the dust and pools it on the floor while Clint takes down the other.

He folds his piece in half with military precision, spreads the resulting rectangle on the floor, and lowers himself down.  The effect is instantaneous and blinding. Purple and scarlet were  _not_  meant to be paired, at least not in any universe that has Natasha Romanoff in it.

“My god,” she gasps.

“What?”

Clint is genuinely confused, leaning back on his elbows and looking up at her.  The single but powerful light bulb illuminates his chiselled abs, and casts deep shadows around the muscles in his shoulders and arms. Why is she suddenly thinking of Michelangelo’s David?

Natasha is staring, and she knows it.

“That  _purple.._.”

Her throat seems to have gone as hoarse as Clint’s; Natasha runs her tongue over suddenly dry lips, hoping against hope that his bullshit detector won’t engage.  

The tongue move has an immediate and unexpected effect on her partner, not to mention on the purple abomination around his hips.  And then it strikes her - a solution so obvious, she almost laughs out loud. 

“I think you need to lose those, Barton.   _Now.”_

 


End file.
